The Hour of The Wolf
by Random Phantom
Summary: In a sequel to "Hounded", Watson and Holmes come to terms with "the Change", while trying to prevent an ancient war from erupting across London and keeping a secret that could destroy them both.
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N: _**Hello! This story is the sequel/continuance of my previous supernatural/AU Holmes story, "Hounded". It does help if you have read it, or else you won't understand "furry Watson" references... this is the first time I have started posting chapters to a story that I haven't already finished at least in draft. I keep changing my mind about the direction to take this, so I apologise now if the updates are sporadic.

My thanks to all those people who read & reviewed Hounded, but especially to **Bartimus Crotchety**, because a) You were right; b) You sparked something with your picture... http:/ community . livejournal .com/watsons_#cutid1 ... and c) When I grow up, I want to write at least half as good as you do. This story is dedicated to you, in the fervent hope that it doesn't turn out too bad.

_

* * *

_

_My Dearest Watson,_

___I write this sitting in our shared rooms at __Baker Street__. I do not know why I have begun this narrative. You have often said that writing helps you to think – I have done nothing but think, these past few weeks. I have never had any problem with sitting down and concentrating upon a problem, subjecting it to the intense scrutiny of my analytical mind. I have always been satisfied to leave the art of writing to you… but I digress._

_I wonder if you will ever read this account… I have no wish to offend you, my dear fellow, but I cannot bring myself to say these things aloud. I suspect that you would not judge me for my thoughts, but such baring of my soul is as alien to my nature as to cause harm to another is to yours. _

_So, instead, I shall record my observations and deductions, Doctor, as fastidiously as I record my case notes and my chemical experiments, but I shall keep this journal far from sight and prying eyes. It is a risk, for the secrets it holds could destroy the lives of many, but it is my fervent hope that by keeping such a record, we may one day find a solution to our problem. Perhaps it will not be in my lifetime; if I were a gambling man, I would wager that your life expectancy will be somewhat longer than my own. Indeed, I doubt that I will pass this journal on to you while there is still breath in my body, but no matter what the manner of my passing, I am certain that it shall only fall into your hands. _

_But my purpose is not to dwell on the inevitable demise of a frail human body. My purpose is to record all of the information on the enigma at hand. The problem that faces me now is one that I think I may never solve, Watson. _

_That problem is you, and what you have become._

_I shall not narrate the beginning circumstances, for I know that in that regard you have kept your own notes. I shall begin my recollections and observations from some weeks later. I recall very clearly one particular night…_

_

* * *

_

The night air was cool and still. Grey clouds hung low over the city of London, and wisps of mist drifted slowly downwards, gradually threatening to envelop the city by morning. Dawn was still several hours away. A dog's howl echoed through a distant street. A few hardy or desperate souls wandered the alleyways, as a lone hansom clopped and clattered down the cobbled main street. It was a perfect night… if one wished to remain obscure and unseen.

Sherlock Holmes slipped soundlessly through the shadows of a back street between two rows of residential houses. He paused, blue-grey eyes wide and alert as he glanced around, seeing and hearing nothing extraordinary over the night-time noises of the city. A chained-up dog barked and whined somewhere in the next street; a drunk was singing loudly outside the nearest tavern, and a domestic argument raged behind closed doors in one of the houses.

Holmes moved on, passing locked wooden gates, until he reached the one he was looking for. It was a rotting, damp, wooden affair, paint peeling from the worm-pocked surface. However, when he pushed it with a leather-gloved hand, the gate slid open noiselessly. He had purposely been there earlier in the week, disguised as a workman, and had oiled the hinges in advance of the night's sojourn. The house, as he had expected, was in darkness, save for a dull glow emanating from an upstairs window. A brief smile flickered across his features; the window was open, and the gaslight coming from within told him that the burglars he was pursuing had walked straight into his trap.

Reaching into his pocket, Holmes pulled out a small, tin whistle. He blew on it, and, although it made no audible sound, it clearly announced his presence to one person in particular. He then silently pushed open the back door of the house – again, the hinges had been oiled well in advance. With a light tread, he climbed the stairs, although he already knew what he was going to find. When he pushed open the door to the back bedroom, he could barely suppress a smile.

"Gentlemen," he greeted the scene with a dispassionate nod, "I am glad to see that you have availed yourselves of my hospitality."

"D…D… Don't let that… that thing… anywhere near me!" yelped one of two terrified men, from where he cowered behind the bed.

The other would-be burglar had somehow managed to climb on top of the wardrobe, where he curled into the small space between it and the ceiling, trembling in terror. Holmes could see ripped holes in their clothing, torn by something incredibly sharp, which had managed to avoid breaking the skin beneath. He permitted himself a small, evil smile.

"Good work," he nodded, to the only other occupant in the room, "hold, now."

The fourth occupant, a massive canine, growled menacingly, causing both of the men to start in alarm, even as the huge dog sat obediently on its haunches. It was big, bigger than any other dog either man had seen, with large brown eyes and wickedly sharp teeth. Its fur was a dark brown colour, dappled with white, grey and black, and, as they had both discovered, the hound had extremely sharp claws at well.

"Scotland Yard will be along shortly to collect you, gentlemen," Holmes told the two men, conversationally, "In the meantime, I am pleased to say that this is not the residence of Lord Forsythe's allegedly light-fingered scullery maid; you will not find any stolen diamonds here."

"Bugger the diamonds," whined the man on top of the wardrobe, close to tears, "where the bloody hell did you find that rabid monster?"

"He belongs to… to a friend of mine," Holmes replied, gracing the hound with a tight smile, "he is very obedient… usually. He does not take kindly to intruders, however…"

Another deep, rumbling growl made both of the said intruders tremble again, as Holmes raised a hand.

"You are Cartwright and Reamer," Holmes pronounced, glancing at each in turn, "you have been stealing from thieves; an interesting approach to crime. You steal items that have already been stolen, therefore avoiding the initial risk of breaking into the legal owner's homes. I have observed your activities for some time, and have, at some expense, procured some of the items you have stolen on behalf of my clients. I have already assessed your methods; you are well-known thieves and pick-pockets. It is simple to deduce that you therefore know of all of the accomplished house-robbers in the city. You wait until a major robbery or theft is reported, and you then establish for yourselves who committed the crime, before burglarising them yourselves. Very clever in theory, but very sloppy in practice – it was easy for me to place a fake news story about stolen diamonds, the scullery-maid a suspect, giving this address, and all I had to do then was wait for you to break into this house."

"Yes, yes, you're the bleeding genius, now get rid of that ruddy dog!" moaned the man behind the bed.

The huge hound snarled again, and Holmes half-turned at the sound of the front door being kicked open and voices sounding on the stairs. Scotland Yard had arrived; Holmes had warned them to keep a watch on the house for the week. The wolf-like dog looked up at Holmes with large, questioning brown eyes. Holmes looked down at it, and nodded.

"Ah, yes, of course," he murmured, as if to himself, "you may go."

At his word, the hound rose, gave one last snarl at the two robbers, and padded quietly out of the room, to which they both breathed an audible sigh of relief. Surprised shouts, yelps and curses on the stairs preceded the arrival of Inspector Gregson into the room, looking slightly pale.

"Mr Holmes!" he exclaimed, seeing the state of the two captives, "What happened? Did you see – a bloody great dog – it just…"

"Indeed, Inspector," Holmes's dry tone easily cut through the Inspector's surprise, "the dog belongs to… well, an acquaintance of Dr. Watson's. I merely, ah, asked for his assistance in trapping these two men, who, as you will be aware, can be quite dangerous when cornered."

"Aye," growled Gregson, "As I recall, they beat a street constable almost to death when he tried to apprehend them a couple of weeks ago – the poor lad's still recovering."

"We'll… we'll confess to everything…" the man on top of the wardrobe was being dragged down, none too gently, by two constables, "just keep that bloody dog away!"

Holmes suppressed a chuckle, schooling his face into an impassive mask, as he detailed to Gregson, with some degree of smugness, how he had set and sprung a trap for the malicious, clever house-breakers, who were now being led away, as meek as kittens. Gregson eyed the damage to their clothing, and whistled.

"Vicious looking dog that, Holmes," the Inspector said, warningly, "I hope the doctor's friend keeps it under good control – I wouldn't think twice about having a monster like that put down if it caused any trouble."

"He is very well trained," Holmes replied, hiding his amusement, "very intelligent, in fact, for a canine – and certainly of more assistance than several members of Scotland Yard that I could name."

Gregson bit back a curt response, knowing that it would only end in his personal humiliation if he entered into a verbal sparring match with the insufferable detective. Instead, the Inspector glanced around, changing the subject; "Where is Dr. Watson this evening, anyway? I had expected him to be here, when you told me we'd be making an arrest soon... thank God it was tonight, I don't think I could stand another all-night watch on this house. It's bloody freezing outside."

"Watson was called away to attend a patient," Holmes told him, turning away, "Unfortunately, no other doctor in the area was able to cover for him. He sends his regards. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think my work here is done. Good night, Inspector."

Without a further word, and ignoring Gregson's half-hearted protest, Holmes turned and walked out of the room, down the stairs, disappearing into the night.

* * *

Halfway down the street, Holmes was greeted by a familiar figure – one moment he was walking alone, and the next there was a four-legged friend padding along beside him.

"Good evening, Watson," Holmes said, in a low but conversational tone, "Excellent work today."

"Thank you, Holmes," the hound replied, politely, incongruously with his vicious, wolf-like appearance, "I must say, your timing was excellent – a few minutes longer, and one of them might have had a heart attack!"

"I noticed the tears in their clothing… you didn't bite either of them, I trust?"

"I was very careful not to break the skin. The last thing I want is another werewolf running around London, especially a criminal one! I simply disarmed them and terrified them into submission until your arrival."

Holmes nodded in the darkness as Watson, in his werewolf form, slunk along beside him in the shadows.

"If Gregson asks," Holmes said, suddenly, "it was a friend of yours who loaned me a large, vicious-looking guard dog for tonight's activities, and you were off attending to a patient. It was the best way I could think of to explain both your presence and your absence!"

"Understood," the wolf gave a growl of a laugh, "I think Gregson is afraid of dogs in any case – he was terrified when I came out of the room and passed him on the stairs!"

Holmes gave his characteristic bark of a laugh; "The poor fellow, he did look quite pale when he came in! He threatened to have you put down if you caused any trouble."

"Then for once I'll try to stay out of it, though I doubt he'd have much luck in any case," Watson responded, "Holmes, it's not far to Baker Street from here – I really need to, um… change back. I'll meet you there."

"Very well," Holmes inclined his head, "Take care, Watson – I shall see you in a few minutes."

Watson returned the nod, and bounded off into the night, as Holmes followed at a much more sedate pace.

* * *

_Oh, Watson – it amuses me still to recall the numerous excuses and explanations I had to come up with for both your presence and simultaneous absence at crime scenes or arrests! The poor fools at Scotland Yard… your great strength and your excellent sense of smell have proved invaluable time and again, and although you always considered your condition to be a curse, you made it into one of your greatest assets._

_Oh, but how tested you were in those early days! If only we had known that day what the dawn would bring us…_


	2. Chapter 2

_I recall the morning after we arrested the two thieves. I had noticed from the start of your transformation that when you turn yourself back into a human, you are utterly exhausted, as if the effort costs you greatly. I suspect that it is quite painful for you, but you refused to allow me to observe you… as great as my curiosity is, I respect your pride and your dignity, my dear fellow. I am sure you knew of my desire to see the change for myself, however!_

_Yet your change was much more than that of man to wolf and back again. You became something more than a man, Watson, in whatever form you choose to wear. There were so many subtle changes… not just to your physical strength, but to your inner strength as well. One who did not know you as well as I might not have observed these alterations in you. Your instincts, for example; already honed from your war years, took on an edge that I could not hope to attain, and your skill and stealth as a hunter are unparalleled… _

_I am ever grateful that you did not choose to hunt me, even in your darkest hours._

_

* * *

_

It was still a few hours before dawn when Holmes emerged from his room at Baker Street, pulling the dressing-gown cord tight and knotting it around his waist. It had been a couple of hours since he had returned from the arrest, climbing in through the bedroom window after shinning up the drainpipe, to avoid disturbing his erstwhile landlady by coming in through the front door at the obscenely early hour. He had rested for a short while, collecting his thoughts on the case ready to present as a statement to Scotland Yard come a more reasonable hour of the day. He had then washed, shaved and changed into clean clothes, before stepping out into the sitting room to light his favourite pipe.

Holmes was amused to find Watson, back to his usual self and fully dressed, fast asleep on the settee. Holmes moved as silently as he could as he lit his pipe and dropped into his armchair, beside the dying embers of the fire. He stoked it up a little, tossing on more wood and coal.

"I trust Inspector Gregson was satisfied with the arrest?"

Holmes glanced up, surprised; he had not heard Watson stir, let alone move over to his side. He quickly hid any expression behind a calm smile and a nonchalant air.

"He was indeed," he responded, leaning back in his chair as Watson took the other seat, "remember, Watson; if he asks, you were tending to a patient last night. No other doctor was available."

"I remember," Watson nodded, with a yawn, "thank God they made a move – I couldn't have spent one more night in that freezing, empty house!"

Holmes gave a bark of a laugh; "And there was me thinking that your fur coat would keep you warm!"

Watson shot him a hazel-eyed glare, and Holmes held up an appeasing hand, saying; "You did excellent work tonight, my dear fellow. Cartwright and Reamer are now safely behind bars, and a lot of stolen property will no doubt shortly be recovered from them and returned to rightful owners. And we shall be very well paid for our efforts – at least four of the rightful owners in question are clients of mine."

"Good," Watson yawned again, and stretched, "If you don't mind, this evening's activities have left me rather tired – I think I will retire, if it's all the same with you? Do try to get some sleep, Holmes – now that the case is concluded, you do not have to stay up all hours!"

"Thank you, Watson," Holmes replied, as he placidly smoked his pipe, "Sleep well!"

Watson sighed quietly, and headed out of the room sleepily, heading for his chambers. The smell of strong tobacco wafted up the stairs after him, and he found the smell oddly comforting.

* * *

In the living room, Holmes continued to smoke, grey eyes staring sightlessly into the dancing flames of the fire, as he wondered what the coming day would bring.

* * *

_Oh, Watson – if I had known what those following days held for you and I, I would not have sat smoking so calmly, and your sleep would have been anything but restful…_

_That day started much as any other, if my recollections are correct. Mrs Hudson knew nothing of your secret, but I am sure she suspected that something was different – she has always been rather perceptive, for a woman! _

_I recall it clearly – the calm before the storm, as it were. Forgive me, Watson – I am not one given to fanciful wishes, but I fervently wish that I could have spared you from what was coming!_

_

* * *

_

Inspector Gregson, as expected, arrived at Baker Street early that same morning, knowing full well that Holmes would still be awake. Mrs Hudson ushered him into the sitting room, where the consulting detective greeted him with cool cordiality – it was better than an open insult.

"The Superintendent was very pleased with our work last night," Gregson reported, hiding a yawn behind his hand, "sorry; haven't had a chance to go home yet. I just came by to get your statement, Mr Holmes…"

"I have taken the liberty of writing it up for you," Holmes replied, to Gregson's surprise, handing over a sheet of paper covered in a barely-legible scrawl, "I am in no mood to discuss the matter at length again at this hour of the day, Inspector – besides, I have a number of clients that I must contact this morning to advise of the successful conclusion to the case; and two other cases that require my attention…"

Gregson quickly covered up his surprise – it was unlike Holmes to miss a chance to brag about his methods, and the Inspector did not want the detective to change his mind and be subjected to half-hour lecture. He straightened up, pocketed the statement, and pulled out his notebook.

"I'd like to add another case to that list," he told Holmes, grimly, "it might concern that evil-looking mutt you had with you last night. This morning, we found a body down by the river; witnesses said they heard the sounds of a large dog growling; when they heard a man screaming several men went out to see what was happening, and found the poor fellow had bee, quite literally, torn apart. The coroner's first impression is that it was a dog attack – but whatever did it was massive, much bigger than your average hound."

"I can assure you that the culprit was not the hound that accompanied me last night," Holmes replied, calmly, "where is the body now?"

"In the city morgue," Gregson replied, "you're welcome to see it, if you like – we don't have any identification yet, but he looks like a vagrant."

"We will come to the Yard shortly, when Dr. Watson is awake," Holmes responded, leaning back in his chair, "Do not allow anyone else to touch the body until I have seen it – you may expect us within the hour. Good day, Inspector."

Realising that he was being curtly dismissed, Gregson took a deep breath, straightened his jacket, and departed quickly.

For his part, Holmes closed his eyes and listened carefully as the Inspector walked down the stairs to the front door, exchanged parting words with Mrs Hudson, and then left. Holmes waited a heartbeat longer, and then shot from his armchair, bounding up the stairs. Flinging open the door to Watson's room, Holmes grabbed an armful of clothes from the wardrobe and dropped them on the bed.

"Awake and arise, Watson! There is a body in the morgue that requires our combined expertise!"

Watson groaned, but sat up accordingly, only to have a waistcoat hit him in the face. With a muffled curse, he flung the material to the floor and glared at Holmes.

"Holmes! Please desist from eviscerating my wardrobe! I will join you downstairs in a moment."

Holmes flashed him a quick grin, as the detective dashed from the room. Watson sighed, and picked up the waistcoat – it clashed horribly with the mismatched jacket and trousers Holmes had thrown at him. Selecting a more appropriate outfit, he dressed hastily, and was soon following Holmes out of their front door.

* * *

_I had feared this moment from the day that you first succumbed to the Change, as we came to call it. I am ashamed to say that I doubted you, my dear fellow, even if I could not bring myself to admit it at first. I doubted that you could control the creature that you could well become, and that like so many of your kind you would give yourself over to the bestial mentality of the wolf. _

_I feared what awaited us in the morgue. I feared, though I dared not acknowledge, that it might have been your handiwork…_

_

* * *

_

As Holmes had promised Gregson, they arrived at the Yard within the hour. Holmes swept imperiously through the building, barely glancing at Gregson as the Inspector stepped out of his office to greet them.

"Glad you could make it, Mr Holmes," the Inspector greeted him, "Dr. Watson."

He tipped his head politely, and Watson returned the gesture.

"You know the direction to the morgue by now," Gregson commented, even as Holmes led the way, "I know you've both seen some sights, but I warn you – this one's nasty."

"And you say witnesses heard a dog," Holmes replied, ignoring the warning, "did anyone see the alleged hound?"

"No-one, Mr Holmes – it had run off before anyone found the body. But a couple of my lads did see paw-prints in the mud around the body – they were huge, a good six or seven inches across the pad-print."

"Why was I not summoned to the scene? No doubt your men have destroyed all of the evidence!"

"Well, for one thing, we were arresting Cartwright and Reamer at the time," Gregson shot back, dryly, "and for another, the scene was ruined before I could get there – the landlord of the local pub decided to wash the blood away with a sluice bucket of water, before my lads could stop him."

"Then we shall have to glean what little we can from the body," Holmes said, all the time not looking at Gregson, "Inspector, please wait out here – come, Watson, we shall work better unfettered by an audience!"

Gregson scowled, but acquiesced. It was unusual for Holmes to not want an audience, but then, Gregson had no desire to see that ravaged body once more. Moments later he was joined by a very unhappy pathologist, who did not appreciate being thrown out of his own lab by an "arrogant amateur". Gregson commiserated with the man, and sent him off on a tea break. He just hoped Holmes would let him in on the act in time for him to report to his superiors…

Having peremptorily dismissed the pathologist, Holmes crossed over to the table that held the corpse of the supposed 'dog attack'. Despite the presence of several bodies, this one was easy to spot – the white cotton sheet that covered the corpse was stained heavily with blood. Holmes walked around the table slowly, and then, reaching out, without hesitation he snatched back the sheet.

For one long moment, he had a hard time associating the bloody mess in front of him with a human body. Then, his analytical mind took over and he leaned forwards over the sorry state in front of him, though he was barely able to distinguish the man's features.

"Your first impressions, Watson?"

The doctor leaned in as well, and inhaled deeply through his nose.

"He's been dead for about seven hours – which corresponds with Gregson's account that the attack took place while we were arresting the house-breakers," Watson murmured, keeping his voice low, well aware that Gregson was trying to listen through the door, "He was terrified at the time he died – I can smell the hormones on him. Quite rightly, too – he was attacked by a werewolf, for sure."

"There are traces of canine hair on the body," Holmes reported, using a pair of tweezers to collect a sample, "look at the bite marks on the bones of his forearm and ribs! Can the teeth of a wolf really do this sort of damage, Watson?"

"Oh, yes," Watson replied, distantly, still sniffing carefully, "Holmes, I don't recognise the smell of this wolf – it is not Hemmingway… and I have heard no others call in the night. Whoever did this, he wishes to remain anonymous."

"He?"

"It is definitely a male wolf," Watson leaned in further and sniffed again, apparently unaffected by the smell of blood, flesh and bile, "he was extremely hungry, whoever he was – most of the internal organs and a good deal of flesh has been consumed…"

"Would you recognise his human aspect?"

"Oh, yes – our scents actually change very little when we change shape," Watson answered, straightening up, "The change is… well, indescribable, really. Holmes, from the size of the paw prints and the teeth marks on the bones, this wolf is a great deal bigger than I am. If he has come to claim London as territory… well, I doubt Hemmingway and I could stand up to a beast this size."

"A worrying thought," Holmes commented, as he visually examined the torn clothes of the luckless victim, "He is indeed a vagrant; the mud on his boots and trousers indicates that he lived near the docks. He worked casually on the boats, and spent a lot of time begging; note the damage to his left knee; he was incapable of walking or working for any length of time. He was a cripple. He was left-handed, and smoked dog-ends of various brands. There are several stubs in his pockets. He had not eaten for some time before his death."

"Agreed," Watson replied, straightening up, "There's not much left to autopsy. I suggest we tell Gregson he is looking for an extremely large hound, much larger than the one he saw last night. He will not find it, but it will keep him occupied…"

"I concur," Holmes nodded, finally pulling the sheet back over the body, "let us hope that this new wolf in the city will be moving on swiftly – a spate of killings and a territorial battle is the last thing we need."

Holmes pushed open the door with a dramatic flair, causing Gregson to leap back in surprise, narrowly avoiding a nasty concussion from the door. Holmes fixed him with an imperious gaze.

"Inspector! Your killer is indeed of the canine variety; I deduce this from the hairs, teeth and claw marks upon the victims' body. However! The hound that you are looking for is much bigger than the one you saw accompanying me last night. I suggest that you employ an experienced dog-catcher, and contact the London Zoo to see if they have any escaped animals – I doubt very much that this creature is a domestic pet. Check also with the boat captains at the docks near where the body was found – it is possible that the animal had come from one of their vessels, either as escaped cargo or an unexpected passenger."

"Err… yes, of course, Mr Holmes," Gregson was already scribbling notes, "We're already checking door to door in the area for eyewitnesses – anything you can tell me about the victim that we, uh, might not have established yet?"

"You mean that you missed for yourself," Holmes corrected him, lightly, "yes, of course – he was left-handed, a cripple, a beggar and part-time dock-hand, when his injuries permitted him to work. He was probably an ex-soldier, given the nature of his old wounds. He spent a great deal of time lying or sitting on the streets by the docks. He was starving, and a heavy smoker. He will no doubt be known to many of the dock-hands and prostitutes on the harbour front. He was unfortunate as he could not run from whatever attacked him."

"Thank you," Gregson nodded, as the pathologist reappeared, "would you be interested in a copy of the pathology report?"

"Have it sent over to me," Holmes nodded, "but I doubt I shall work this case – I specialise in human behaviour, not canine. Send for the dog-catchers, Gregson, not the world's only consulting detective!"

Holmes threw the last comment over his shoulder as he breezed down the corridor, with Watson in tow. They stepped outside into the misty sunshine, and Holmes flagged down a passing cab. They stepped aboard and sat side by side, as Watson tapped his cane on the roof to signal to the cabbie to walk on.

"I do not like this, Holmes," the doctor said, at last, as the cab rattled down the street, through traffic, "We have only just realised the existence of werewolves – and vampires – and here another appears in London!"

"The full moon is yet two weeks away," Holmes reminded him, "if we can locate and perhaps reason with this new lycanthrope, we may avoid further bloodshed."

"I hope so," Watson nodded, "even in a full moon transformation I doubt that I would be a match for such a creature, if the impressions of his scent and his teeth are anything to go by!"

"Given that he has not announced himself to the local wolf population, I suspect that this individual merely wishes to pass through London unnoticed," Holmes said, "he had no way to know that his kill would be investigated by one of those local wolves! No doubt many such kills are passed off as the work of a vicious dog or an escaped zoo animal…"

"Nonetheless," Watson said, quietly, "We should be on our guard. Should I warn Hemmingway? I could call to him, tonight…"

"Best not to," Holmes cautioned him, "I have no desire for you to reveal your presence to this new wolf – I would hate for him to come looking for you."

"I would not place you and Mrs Hudson in such danger," Watson replied, with a nod, "I shall, perhaps, send Hemmingway a private letter… though he often ignores my correspondence, I feel obliged to warn him, even if he does see me as an interloper in his territory!"

"Old fool," Holmes agreed, without rancour, "very well, Watson – as you must. But please! Be careful when you are out and about…"

"As should you, Holmes… As should you."

* * *

_Forgive me, Watson. You have a strong heart and an iron will, and you have never harmed anyone except in defence of yourself or another, and even then only when no other escape presented itself. _

_I should never have doubted you._


	3. Chapter 3

_It never ceased to amaze me the way that you could walk into a room and tell me dozens of details that my own observations could never have gleaned – the scents of all those people in the room, the presence of a flower that had shed no petals, the brand of perfume too faded for me to detect – these and more! You could detect at a sniff whether a man was lying or truthful, or the time of death of a corpse under varying conditions… I wonder now if the admiration I felt for your skills is anything akin to the reactions of those clients of mine who remark with admiration on my own simplistic deductions upon our first meetings! _

_But it was always Lestrade – poor Lestrade – who bore the brunt of our investigative prowess…_

* * *

Inspector Lestrade always experienced a vague feeling of dread whenever he had to visit Baker Street. It was not so much because he feared Sherlock Holmes; they had been working together far too long for the Inspector to be all that intimidated by the great detective any more.

It was more because he never knew what kind of a reception he was going to get. Either Holmes would be delighted to see him; not on a personal level, but because he was desperate for a case, or else the man was dismissive. This would be because Holmes already had a busy case load, or there was a client present, or the mystery that had driven Lestrade to the lodgings at 221b was too trivial or – most annoyingly to the Inspector – Holmes had already solved it simply by reading the newspapers.

Lestrade knew that the detective had a number of cases on, including something to do with a dog attack that Gregson was investigating, but he had no reason to suspect that the great Holmes would turn down this particular case. Nonetheless, out of sheer habit and slight apprehension, Lestrade hesitated accordingly on the doorstep. However, the missing person he had been presented with was too important and he was under too much pressure already to find the man. It was also fairly chilly, the March mid-morning having a distinctly cold snap to it.

Swallowing his hesitation and mentally marshalling the facts of the case ready for presentation, Lestrade therefore knocked on the door. The familiar, diminutive figure of Mrs Hudson opened the door. Lestrade removed his hat and wiped his shoes before he entered, and she nodded approvingly.

"Good morning, Inspector," she said, "I've just taken a tray of coffee up; I think Mr Holmes is expecting you, though he's not long been back from the Yard…"

"Really? Oh, yes… he'll have read the paper this morning," Lestrade nodded, absently handing her his coat as he unconsciously straightened his jacket and smoothed down his hair, "thank you, Mrs Hudson."

"I'll announce you, Inspector," she told him, already climbing the stairs.

Lestrade followed her, waited to be announced, and stepped into the cluttered sitting room on cue. Holmes was sitting at the dining table, reading the morning newspaper. Dr Watson was sitting on the settee, reading a leather-bound journal with apparent deep interest. As Lestrade entered, Holmes tossed the paper aside haphazardly, and got to his feet. Watson slammed the book shut and similarly leapt up, as if embarrassed to have been caught reading it.

"Gentlemen," Lestrade greeted them, wearily, and went straight to the point, "Holmes, I have a case for you… that is, if you're interested?"

"I had suspected as much," Holmes replied, dryly, "I doubted that you had attended my lodgings for any other reason than to admit to further failings in the ranks of Scotland Yard. If it is with regards to the theft of Lady Erstinger's diamond necklace, it was taken by the children's former governess."

"It has nothing to do with that, but thank you for the tip," Lestrade replied, not bothering to ask how Holmes had solved the matter without even leaving his rooms, "I have a missing person of great importance…"

"Sir Isaiah Bryce," Holmes noted, "yes, I read of his disappearance this morning. The newspapers say he has been missing for at least two weeks."

"That is true," Lestrade said, "he was reported missing by his butler. A search of his house revealed nothing; none of his clothing or luggage was missing, save for what he had been wearing the day he disappeared. There has been no sign of a struggle, no body, no ransom demands, nothing."

"On that same night, two prostitutes in the neighbourhood also disappeared," Holmes told him, with a dry smile, "one of them turned up yesterday with her throat slit, the other has yet to be found. I have long suspected Sir Bryce of having been involved in the previous disappearances of such women. This time, he was probably observed; he has fled the country, Inspector. You will not find him."

"Holmes," Lestrade scowled, "you cannot possibly have reckoned all of that from simply reading the newspaper. Besides, Sir Isaiah is very well respected…"

"Inspector," a dangerous, warning edge crept into Holmes's tone; "I have told you before that despite the paucity of evidence and the embellishments some of our local journalists see fit to add haphazardly to their reporting, it is easy to draw inferences as much from what is not said as it is from what is actually written. You must also observe articles that are printed on the same day, and learn to see the connections between them."

"I fail to see how you conclude that Sir Bryce has fled the country after murdering a couple of whores."

Holmes sniffed disdainfully, and sighed, even as he sat in his chair and crossed his legs, a gleam of amusement in his grey eyes.

"Very well," he said, "I shall spell it out for you. Sir Bryce is a very rich man, but very reclusive. When he is seen in public, it is commented upon. He is something of a celebrity, a famous game-hunter, and as such is well noted in the social scene when he deigns to make an appearance. When he attends a restaurant, for example, the fact is advertised, and the restaurant's patronage increases as a result. It is therefore easy to track the man's movements, and to determine which evenings he was out of his home."

"I'm with you so far," Lestrade noted, giving Holmes a sideways glance, "but I'm not convinced..."

Holmes held up his finger, signalling that he would get to the point soon enough; "On no less than six occasions, sightings or comments on the activities of Sir Bryce corresponded with the disappearance of one or two prostitutes. Only very rarely did a body show up afterwards, the throat usually slit and dumped in the river."

"Coincidence," Lestrade scoffed, but signalled for Holmes to continue.

"I was unable to obtain firm evidence of his involvement due to his semi-reclusive ways," Holmes admitted, "However, approximately two weeks ago, there was a full moon. Sir Bryce dined out that night, boasting to several friends and a reporter that he was planning to go on a big game hunt. That night, he disappeared, a young woman turned up dead and another is missing. She will, in all likelihood, never be found. Sir Bryce's big hunt was to pray on human life; no doubt this time, because of the light of the full moon, he was seen by someone who might identify him, either in the act of the killing or in the act of dumping the body. He could not risk a quick response, so he fled the country. He had no way of knowing that whoever saw him did not report the matter."

Lestrade was silent for a long moment, and then said; "We have no evidence to support anything you've just said."

"You have no evidence at all either way, Inspector," Holmes replied, "Sir Bryce was clever enough to cover up his crimes. However, when you look at the facts of the circumstances, you will see that my conclusions are the logical inference."

"Then you are refusing to investigate further," Lestrade realised, with a sinking feeling.

"Why would I need to investigate further?" Holmes quirked one eyebrow, "the crime scene is unknown and the evidence two weeks old; I need no further investigation to know that I am correct. Sir Bryce is gone and will not return. I suggest that you report to Whitehall accordingly."

Lestrade sighed, and resisted the urge to wring his hands in despair. His superiors were not going to like Holmes's conclusions, but Lestrade knew from long experience that the detective was, in all likelihood, correct. Lestrade was now faced with the tedious task of proving it; unlike Holmes, his superiors preferred evidence a little more concrete than the coincidences thrown up by a few newspaper clippings.

"Yes," he said, at length, suddenly aware of the silence and the fact that it was his turn to speak, "well… thank you for your time. Good day, Holmes… doctor…"

He tipped his hat, and left the sitting room. Trekking down the stairs, he bade farewell to Mrs Hudson, and went to face his superiors.

* * *

Holmes waited for a long moment, heard the front door slam, and allowed a rare, broad smile to cross his face.

"I think I convinced him," he commented, sounding pleased.

"You did," Watson confirmed, with a nod, "poor Lestrade. He believed every word you said."

"And so he should – the vast majority of it was true."

"Except for the part about Bryce having fled the country," Watson agreed, "he's dead… and he wasn't just hunting prostitutes, he was hunting us. Lestrade would have a fit if he knew the true circumstances."

"He would have a harder time believing the truth than he did the fiction I just wove for him," Holmes said, with a slight hint of amusement, "the poor fool."

"A month or so ago, I wouldn't have believed it myself," Watson replied, in defence of the Inspector, "Werewolves and vampires in London – I ask you!"

The two of them shared a chuckle, as Holmes went to retrieve his newspaper. Watson took his place in his own customary armchair. He was reading the journal kept by Stapleton, the evil werewolf behind the hound of the Baskervilles charade, and indirect cause of Watson's own transformation. He found himself shuddering involuntarily at the violence and blood-lust Stapleton wrote of, claiming them to be his wolf-nature – Watson had no such inclinations himself, and was content to believe that this was merely a reflection of personality, not a result of the werewolf's curse. He heard Holmes sigh and set aside the paper; his friend's mood smelt melancholy (he had never appreciated before how the unique blend of hormones, sweat and other odours could lend emotions their own distinct aromas). Clearly, there was nothing in the columns to interest that great mind.

"Holmes?" he said, questioningly, not looking up from the journal, "I can smell your boredom. Dare I assume that you have no cases to occupy you?"

"Lestrade's missing person and Gregson's dog attack victim are the only two interesting cases to come my way recently," Holmes growled, "In the first, I am the culprit, and in the second, the murderer is a man who can turn into a wolf. I have solved both of these cases and can reveal the solution to neither."

"I am sorry, my dear fellow," Watson quietly got up, and replaced the journal on the highest shelf of his bookcase, "I quite understand – and I am sorry to have put you in this position."

"Hardly your fault, Watson," Holmes replied, distantly and dismissively, "No, I shall just have to see what else comes my way – something of a less supernatural nature, one would hope…"

Watson quirked a smile; "In that case, shall we dine out for lunch? New werewolf in the city or not, it is a marvellous day, and I quite feel like going for a walk."

"Shall I fetch your leash?"

"Holmes!"

* * *

_Ah, yes – Sir Isaiah Bryce. A vampire! I would hardly have credited it – had a client come to me with such a story, I would have scoffed at such a fanciful notion and ushered him quickly from our chambers to deal with something far more down-to-earth. My mind is so much more open now than it ever was, even in my fanciful youth. Ah, yes, Watson! Even I was a child once!_

_Bryce, I seem to recall, was a relatively young vampire, with limited power. I thought him to be the only one in __London__. Subsequent cases would prove me wrong, unfortunately – I have always said that one should not draw conclusions without first gathering data and analysing the facts. I did not have the time for the study of quantitative data, and such materials as were available were laced with inaccuracies and scare-mongering fiction. Suffice to say, having discovered that vampires are a far more sociable species than the lycanthropes (forgive me, Watson; I simply abhor the word 'werewolf'!) and are more tolerant to visitors in their territories. _

_Territory was an interesting concept to us both… I quickly came to realise that despite claiming no territory, you fought to protect __London__ as much as I had ever done in my own way. I understand now that you were protecting territory… our territory._

_And God help any who dared to trespass upon our soil. _

* * *

The rest of their day was pleasant, yet unremarkable. They strolled around the city, ran a few errands, and dined well at a local eatery. Holmes made deductions about those people unfortunate enough to be sitting nearby. Watson made several confirmations or corrections based on overheard snatches of conversation, or scents he could distinguish with his marvellously heightened senses.

"Oh, for your gifts, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed, at one such revelation, "I could observe a hundred times more details…"

It was late afternoon by the time they returned to their Baker Street lodgings, only to be met by an anxious Mrs Hudson.

"Mr Holmes!" she exclaimed, emerging from the kitchen as soon as they stepped into the hall, "Oh, Mr Holmes – I'm glad you've come back. There's a gentleman upstairs to see you, sir – he insisted on being let in and waiting for you. I'm afraid there was nothing I could do…he pushed right past me, so he did, sir!"

"Do not concern yourself, Mrs Hudson," Holmes replied, breezily, shrugging out of his coat, "I will see him, of course."

"He dresses like a gentlemen, but he certainly isn't one," Mrs Hudson grumbled, as she busied herself taking their coats and hats, "no manners at all…"

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," Watson smiled at her, as they headed up the stairs to their rooms.

"I'll bring some tea up," Mrs Hudson said, bustling back into the kitchen, "after your visitor has gone!"

Reaching the landing at the top of the stairs, Holmes reached out to open the sitting room door, when Watson suddenly grabbed his wrist. Holmes raised his eyebrow questioningly, as Watson leaned forwards and sniffed, carefully.

"What is it, Watson?" Holmes whispered.

"I don't know," Watson replied, in a murmur, "I thought there was an unusual scent – but all I can smell now is aftershave, and it is incredibly pungent!"

Holmes gave him a curious look, grasped the handle, and pushed open the door.

The fog of strong aftershave and even stronger tobacco assailed them as soon as he did so, and Holmes stepped forwards even as Watson recoiled slightly. Recovering himself and making an effort to breathe through his mouth only, Watson came through the door and closed it behind him. Their guest turned to face them, coolly removing his cigar from his lips and giving them a broad, yellow-toothed smile.

"Ah," he growled, in a rough voice, "you must be Holmes and Watson. Had a good afternoon, did we?"

Holmes arched his eyebrow at the man's rudeness, even as he took in his appearance. Their visitor was tall, easily matching Holmes's height. He was a broad-shouldered man with a muscular build and upright bearing. His countenance was tough, with a strong, clean-shaven jaw and a steely, brown-eyed gaze. He had thick, light-brown hair, and he wore expensively tailored clothes. A gold pocket watch chain hung across the front of his well-cut waistcoat, but his rough, calloused hands belied a harder way of life than his clothes implied. He was clearly wealthy, but he spent a lot of time outdoors – probably hunting and fishing, if the calloused, rough skin were anything to go by.

"Quite pleasant, thank you," Watson was replying to the man's sarcastic comment, even as Holmes made his deductions, "I am Dr Watson; this is Mr Sherlock Holmes. I am afraid that you have the advantage, Mr…?"

"I am the Count Jeremiah Joseph de Silva," the man announced, fixing a glare on Holmes, ignoring Watson's proffered hand, "I demand your assistance, Holmes. My life is in immediate danger…"

The Count broke off, sniffed disdainfully, and narrowed his eyes at Holmes.

"Do you keep a dog around here, Holmes?" he asked, glancing around suspiciously.

Holmes raised one eyebrow, and swept his coat-tails aside with one hand as he perched himself in a chair, leaning forward to give the Count an appraising look; "Our estimable landlady keeps a small terrier as a defence against rats," he replied, even as he settled himself, "do not concern yourself, sir; the dog usually stays in the kitchen downstairs. Watson, would you mind perhaps taking some notes?"

The Count sniffed again and gave him another glare, as Watson crossed to his desk, trying to ignore the pungent smells pervading the room. Surreptitiously, he opened the window, before retrieving his pencil and journal. Instead of sitting down at his desk, Watson took a standing position beside Holmes's chair. There was something about the Count that he did not trust. The strong smell of cologne and cigars was having a devastating effect on his sensitive sense of smell, blinding him to any nuances of emotion or intent on the part of their imposing visitor.

"I am allergic to dogs," the Count said, imperiously, as if by way of explanation.

"Indeed," Holmes sounded interested at this triviality, so Watson made a note of it, "tell me, Count," Holmes continued, "why you should see fit to invade my rooms and harass my landlady? Do you truly believe yourself to be in such immediate danger?"

"My wife is the Countess Teresa de Silva," the Count replied, "she… she seeks to kill me. Holmes, my wife is a twisted soul, a vile little witch with her eye on my family fortune. There are no other heirs. In the event of my death, she will inherit our lands, our title and our fortune. Dissatisfied with the allowance I pay her – and a generous one, I might add – she seeks my downfall. She has already failed twice in her attempts, but she grows ever bolder..."

"Does she act through agents?" Holmes asked, "I see no wounds upon your person, nor any traces of previous injury; pray, disclose how these attacks took place."

"She acts directly upon my person – I am attacked by my own beloved," the Count replied, grimly, pacing the sitting room restlessly, "she needs no agents to act, she is strong enough in her own mind and body to deal me a fatal blow."

Holmes suddenly threw back his head and let out a bark of a laugh; "Sir! I have yet to meet a woman who could hope to match you in size and strength. What makes you fear you wife so?"

"Even the most petite woman can wield a pistol or a poison bottle, Holmes," the Count snapped, "I have already been derided by the police and did not come here to be mocked by you!"

"Then why have you come here, sir?"

"To reclaim my errant wife," de Silva replied, making a visible effort to reign in his temper, "she is mentally deranged, Mr Holmes – she ought to be in an asylum, but I prefer to pay for private nursing for her at home. Despite it all, I do still feel something for her..."

Holmes's lip twitched in barely disguised disdain at the sentiment. The Count seemed to realise that the detective would not be swayed by emotion, as he threw back his head and laughed; a deep, throaty sound that made Watson grit his teeth.

"Very well, Mr Holmes, you are not convinced! Then I shall pitch my offer; help me to find my poor wife in this sprawling city, and you shall be very well rewarded. I am a stranger here, and I stand little chance of finding her in this large population, but I am incredibly rich."

Count de Silva smiled his foul, yellow-toothed smile once more, though there was no warmth behind the expression. Holmes pressed his forefingers to his lips, giving the man an appraising look. Finally, he inclined his head.

"Very well," he said, as Watson raised his eyebrows in surprise, "we will do what we can. Where can I find you, should I need to?"

"You will find me at the Queen's Hotel," de Silva replied, standing and ramming his top hat down onto his unruly hair, "do please find her quickly; she will be in need of her medication, lest her delusions become more… vivid. I have followed her to London but she no doubt knows that I am here. She is clever enough to turn the tables on me and may be following me even now… I doubt that she would hesitate to shoot me on sight."

Holmes inclined his head slowly, and then asked a question that took Watson by surprise; "And who is the female companion who travels with you?"

At the Count's quirked eyebrow, Holmes elaborated; "You have a woman's lace handkerchief in your trouser pocket; I can see the edge of lace. Not the sort of thing a gentleman would carry unless he had asked to use it and then placed it in his pocket rather than hand it back sullied. The flower in your button hole was clearly placed there by a fairer hand than your own; it is clearly not an affectation that you are comfortable with, as you have adjusted it four times since stepping into the room. She is clearly, therefore, not a maid or servant, nor is she your wife. She is therefore either a mistress or a relative; I should be grateful if you would advise me as to which."

The Count hesitated, and growled low in his throat before he replied; "She is my daughter. My wife may also wish her harm, and she travels with me for her own protection. Find my wife, Holmes!"

With that, de Silva turned, and left without a word of goodbye. Holmes raised his eyebrows, rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and laced his fingers together, thoughtfully, listening as the front door slammed shut. Watson immediately flung open the window as wide as it would go, and took a deep, grateful breath or fresh air.

"What do you make of him, Holmes?" the doctor asked, as he rubbed the bridge of his nose as if trying to dispel a headache.

"Unusually for a man of his stature, he genuinely fears his own spouse. Is there anything that you can tell me about him, Watson, which my own deductions could not?"

"That he has an inordinate love of bathing in perfumes," Watson groaned, leaning out of the window slightly, "he wore no less than four that I could distinguish, as well as smoking incredibly strong cigars. I couldn't smell anything else on him!"

As Watson leaned out of the window, he saw de Silva approaching a carriage. The door was opened for him from inside, and Watson caught a glimpse of a white-gloved hand pulling quickly back into the carriage before the Count stepped aboard. The cab took off at some speed, as Watson sighed and turned back into the room; "I am sorry, Holmes – there's nothing else I can tell you."

"Don't be, my dear fellow," Holmes replied, distantly, "your sense of smell is an excellent tool, but you must remember to use your eyes as well. What else did you observe?"

"Well," Watson hesitated for a moment, consulting his notes and gathering his thoughts, "he was correct when he says that he is wealthy – his clothing was of an excellent cut. His cigars, while noxiously strong, were a top brand. He is physically very strong, and spends a lot of time outdoors…"

He trailed off, and Holmes nodded; "Good, but not quite the whole story. He is somewhat longsighted, I should say, from the way he squinted slightly. He is right-handed, and, despite his obvious wealth, he has travelled cheaply and is staying in fairly low-rent accommodation. He is not attended by servants as there is dust upon his jacket, though as I remarked, he has a female companion. I believe him when he says that she is his daughter. He travels frequently on foot rather than by horse or carriage, as his shoes and trouser hems bear the mud and dirt of numerous streets and districts – he had indeed been searching hard for his wife… and then there is his mention of an allergy to dogs… hmm… He is also a careless eater, for I noticed the stains of food upon his shirt collar and cuffs."

"What do you make of it, Holmes?" Watson asked, quietly, as the detective stared sightlessly as the far wall, leaning forwards intently as his mind analysed the facts presented to him.

"There is something deeply serious going on beneath the surface here, Watson," Holmes told him, "I already have good reason to believe that there is a crime about to be committed – and might already have been committed – by our mysterious Count, or perhaps even by his equally enigmatic wife. The woman in the carriage remains an unknown element… for now. It may relate to… no, never mind that now. I do need to find the Countess to be sure that my suspicions are correct. We should, perhaps, wait until nightfall…?"

"Agreed," Watson nodded, leaning out of the window slightly further, "though we will struggle to track her without clue or scent…and what about the woman in the carriage?"

"I subscribe no importance to her until we have further facts at our disposal. The Countess must be our first priority, and in that respect I have clues a-plenty, Watson, which is scent enough for a nose such as mine. We must find the Countess de Silva … I am sure that there is murder plotted here, and I intend to both discover its motive and prevent its act."

* * *

_You know better than any, dear Watson, that I do not place much faith in the vagaries of emotion. Yet that day I knew, somehow, that we were in great danger. It is the basest of man's instincts to fear what he does not know; to cower in the darkness rather than reach out to strike a light lest he see what he fears to be there. _

_I have never feared to strike a light in the darkest of places, Watson. With you at my side, I have walked imperiously though the darkest of streets and gazed in the souls of the most depraved creatures on Earth without trepidation or second thought…_

_Yet, that day, employed to prevent a murder, I was as in the dark as the next man. I did not see what was coming. _

_It would come out of the darkness._

_

* * *

_

_**A/N: **Thank you all for the kind reviews so far - apologies for the long chapter, there should be some proper action in the next one! Please do let me know what you think so far - it might make my muse concentrate more on finishing this story and less on painting tattoo designs on the living room wall... (don't ask)._


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Another update! I'm feeling generous, and my muse has taken pity on me and given me a break from painting... thank you to those who have read and reviewed so far. Following feedback, I have changed my settings to allow PM's and anonymous reviews. Apologies; I didn't realise that these had been disabled. My bad.

**

* * *

**

_It was into the darkness that we ventured that night. I was so sure that by finding the Countess I could lay the whole case to rest quickly. Your Change was still so very recent; neither of us had fully realised the extent of your abilities and I was keen to study you further. I feel I must apologise again, Watson – I must have treated you like a specimen under a microscope those first few weeks, or like a volatile chemical that might react unpredictably with whatever it comes into contact with!_

_I have commented upon the number of changes that came over you, my dear fellow. However, all pale in comparison to the one. The Change. _

_For when you take on your wolf-form, Watson, you are indeed an investigative force to be reckoned with – forgive the obvious simile, but when you are on the scent, you are as tenacious as a blood-hound!_

* * *

The cobbled streets were wet and shone in the light of the gas lamps that lined the streets as a steady rain fell upon the darkened city. Holmes moved quietly though the shadowed streets at a languid, measured pace, as Watson slunk along beside him, his greyish-brown wolf-form flitting between the shadows like a ghost.

In the dim light, Holmes's face was in shadow beneath the brim of his hat, from which rain steadily dripped, to land at his feet, splashing into the puddles on the ground.

"Damn this weather," Watson growled, "it's washing away all of the scents... I can't even tell you which way the Count went when he left earlier…"

"That is unimportant," Holmes told him, quietly, "now, let us reason. The Countess, like the Count, will be a respectable lady with disreputable intent. She will be travelling alone, no doubt with modest funds available at her disposal. She will seek cheap lodgings where she will be neither questioned nor remarked upon. The best disguise to adopt, therefore, is one of a traveller – she knew her husband would follow her to London, a convenient port-city. I suspect that she wishes to kill him here and immediately leave, probably for another continent…"

"She will be staying somewhere near the docks, then?" Watson suggested.

"Exactly!" Holmes spun around and crouched down, so that he was eye-to-eye with the wolf at his side, spreading his hands dramatically; "She waits, like the black widow spider, for her prey to flounder into her net and there... there she will devour him before making good her convenient escape…" Holmes clenched his fist to emphasise his point, and then leapt to his feet, walking on quickly. Watson padded along beside him, listening as Holmes continued; "She will have left a trail for her husband to follow, and he does not strike me as the most intelligent fellow… it should not prove too difficult for us to find her."

Watson ducked his head and hugged the shadows as a young, giggling couple passed them on the pavement, fortunately too wrapped up in each other to notice the tall, thin man in black apparently talking to a gigantic dog.

"I still fail to see how we're going to find the Countess without a scent to track or a physical description…" Watson commented, once the couple were out of earshot.

"We do not need either," Holmes murmured, "I suspect that the Count has hired us as a mere decoy. He already knows where the Countess is, and once we are close enough, he will counter-strike. He clearly underestimates our mutual advantages."

"I am sure you know what you are doing, Holmes," Watson began, "but…"

He trailed off, as a distant sound split the air. Holmes listened; it was the howl of a dog, low and mournful, not an unusual night-time sound for the city. However, he had since learned better.

"Hemmingway?" he hazarded a guess, naming the only other known werewolf in London; an elderly member of parliament who spent most of his time at the Diogenes Club, who resented Watson's presence in the city, but was prevented by age and infirmity from doing anything about it.

"No," Watson pricked his ears up, "no, it's not… good God, Holmes; it could be the other wolf – the one who killed the vagrant!"

"Where is he? Is his close?"

"He's not far," Watson replied, leaning forwards slightly, "wait… there is an answer!"

To Holmes, the second howl sounded exactly the same as the first. He slowly bent his knees until he was crouched next to Watson, and they were virtually on eye level. Watson's lips curled back in a snarl, looking slightly alarmed. Holmes rested a gloved hand on Watson's canine shoulder, a silent entreaty to be cautious.

"Do you understand them?"

"Yes. They are hunting for something – or someone," Watson responded, glancing across at Holmes, "Not me, if that's what you're thinking, but they might well pick up my scent, even in this weather. I don't think they know I'm here yet. Holmes, they sound… small. Two small wolves would not have done the same damage to the vagrant that we saw… that was done by a lone, large wolf."

"Interesting," Holmes mused, "I understood from the writings of Stapleton and Hemmingway that there were very few wolves in England; now we find three that have suddenly appeared in this city?"

"These two are definitely new here," Watson informed him, listening to the barks and howls on the night air, "they do not know the city, or their way around; they speak of a confused, masked scent… this way, Holmes…"

Watson padded silently down the alleyway, and Holmes slipped along beside him, moving as silently as his lycanthropic companion. Watson's fur bristled as he paused, sniffing around. A stray dog saw them, took one look at Watson, yelped, and fled. In the distance, a loud, fierce barking suddenly rent the air, and Watson jerked to a stop, raising his head and pricking his ears up. Barks and yelps carried on the night air, and Holmes observed that Watson's eyes were wide with trying to interpret the noise, even as human voices angrily cut in, disturbed by the canine racket. A very human, very female scream of terror went up, and Watson suddenly bolted.

"Watson! Wait!" Holmes lunged after him, but Watson was faster; and soon disappeared from view down the winding back-streets. Holmes was less than amused that now it was he who was having difficulty keeping up.

A movement above him caught his eye and Holmes froze, whipping around; he could have sworn, for one moment, that he had seen a figure leaping across the rooftops. Glancing around quickly, he saw no other sign of the shadowy movement, whatever it may have been.

Trying to recall the direction in which Watson had been heading, Holmes began to track him using his own observational methods. He was not deterred; a paw-print here, a snag of fur in the brickwork of the wall there – his friend was easy to track.

A loud snarl not far away told him that he was closing in on his friend's location. It also told him that he might be helpless to assist with whatever transpired in that dark alley.

* * *

_In the early days, we feared a pack of wolves moving into __London__ – we both silently feared what they might do. For your part, you feared the effect upon the city. I know that you were afraid of wolves preying on the people of the city, worried about the human cost, and the bloodshed that would inevitably follow in their wake. I know you were also concerned about the possibility of the age-old war re-erupting on our streets between lycanthrope and vampire. _

_Of course this concerned me, but I did not fear it. _

_I feared what they might do to you, my dear Watson. _

* * *

Watson bounded along as fast as he could, knowing that he had to outpace Holmes – what he had heard was the sound of no less than three werewolves fighting, and two of them were practically screaming for help to anyone who could hear and understand. The humans who had stumbled across the scene, whoever they might be, had put themselves in mortal danger. Watson did not want Holmes to be in the same danger he was now running to face. He leapt around a corner, and snarled to announce his entrance.

The first wolf which stood before him was bigger than any he had seen before – even bigger than Stapleton. The two others were only the size of a large dog, something like an Alsatian, much smaller than Watson. One of the small ones yipped and whined, wanting to run but unwilling to abandon the other, which was pinned down by the giant wolf.

"Brother," whined the wolf pacing nearby, "my brother…"

Watson did not know whether the creature was speaking to him or to the poor figure pinned down by their assailant, but the bigger wolf growled it into silence.

"Who are you?" it challenged.

Watson glanced around – whoever had screamed and shouted was long-gone, probably to fetch a constable.

"I could ask you the same question," he replied, with a nod towards the hapless wolf squirming beneath the bigger monster's claws, "release that poor creature – we will have no territorial disputes in this city."

"Hah!" the wolf barked a laugh, but released the smaller one anyway. It yelped and limped off, joining its brother; the two of them quickly vanished, "Those two stupid half-breeds couldn't hold a territory if their life depended on it… and your territory does not interest me. I only come to hunt."

"Nobody hunts the humans in this city," Watson growled, his hackles rising, "I protect them. Feed on the rats and strays… but not the people. It was you that killed that poor beggar the other night."

"My journey was long and he was easy prey," the wolf replied, taking a few paces forwards, "I warn you, little cub – stay away from me. I shall conclude my hunt and leave you to your territory. Much as I would love to tear out your throat, I simply do not have the time!"

With that, the huge hound turned and bounded away down the alley. Watson leapt after him, but, suddenly, there was the scent of the change in the air – that indescribable shifting of wolf to human scent, and at that, an oddly familiar smell…

The heavy fist that came crashing down onto his skull was like being hit with a hammer. Watson yelped, and slammed down to the cobbled street with a bone rattling thud. He was unconscious before he even realised what had happened.

* * *

Holmes turned a corner and was very nearly bowled over by two terrified dogs running in the opposite direction. He remarked their passing with little more than a slightly quirked eyebrow; he had seen how dogs, horses and other animals reacted with terror to Watson, whether in human or wolf-form; there was something about the scent of a werewolf that activated the terror-sense in the animal mind that the human mind had long since worked to distance itself from.

However, he had no doubt these were the two smaller wolves Watson had alluded to… Holmes wondered, briefly, what would cause them to be so small… perhaps they were only young? Further evidence was required; Holmes refused to draw conclusions without facts. He did theorise, however, that those two poor wolves, big as they were by dog standards, had been terrified by the sight of a hound much bigger and more ferocious-looking than themselves – though whether this was Watson or their other mystery wolf remained to be seen.

A very canine-sounding yelp of pain made Holmes pick up his pace for a reason that he could not fathom. Turning the corner, his keen eyes picked out a huddled mass of fur slumped on the cobblestones, and he approached it cautiously, every sense alert for danger.

"Watson?"

He held his hand out, cautiously – although the darkness of the night disguised the markings of his fur, Holmes nonetheless recognised his friend and colleague in wolf-shape, lying unconscious on the floor. He frowned – as a werewolf, Watson had become very hard to injure. The only things that had ever caused him harm were other wolves, silver, and aconite, the latter of which they had used as a remedy of sorts to control the worst effects of the full moon. Whatever had done this must have been extremely powerful.

"Watson," Holmes hissed, "Wake up, old chap!"

Watson whined softly, as his eyes flickered open. Holmes's smile was hidden in shadow, as Watson gathered his legs beneath him – all four of them – and pushed himself upwards, to sit on his haunches. His head hung down and his ears comically dipped forwards, the very picture of misery and dejection.

"Oow," he moaned; his voice a very quiet howl, "Holmes, the other wolf…"

He tried to raise his head, but was forced to close his eyes briefly against the pain. Holmes rested his hand on Watson's shoulder, examining him for injury. One eye was swollen shut, but Holmes could already see the injury healing.

"Who did this? Did you see him?"

"Only his wolf-form," Watson replied, "but I caught his scent – he changed, briefly, to hit me, but I think he went wolf again to carry on – I can track the scent, before the rain washes it away… Holmes, I recognised the smell, I know who the big wolf is!"

"My dear fellow, I had already deduced it. It is the Count de Silva."

* * *

_Watson, I have observed that when you are in wolf-form, you have all the advantages of canine kind, and more besides. You are fast; fast enough to outpace a galloping horse, which I have seen you do, much to the consternation of the rider!_

_Your sense of smell, enhanced in your human form, becomes truly exceptional. All of your senses become magnificent; distant sights and sounds are as clear to you as if you were standing right beside the source. You are stronger than a bear and as invulnerable as steel…_

_… But even so, you still have your weaknesses._

* * *

"The scent leads this way, Holmes, but it is fading fast in the rain…"

Watson pounded down an alley, loping along with an easy, bounding stride. However, the scent of de Silva was fading, and when it came to an end, he growled in disappointment.

"I'm sorry, Holmes, I've lost the… Holmes?"

He turned; the detective was nowhere in sight, and Watson cursed himself, remembering that he was much faster on four legs than on two. He knew, however, that Holmes would easily track him, and without the use of the enhanced senses that Watson now revelled in.

Watson sniffed around; there was nothing to be detected, no faint traces to see or smell, and no sound carried to his ears that would give a clue as to the direction his quarry had taken. He sighed, but did not give up.

Instead, he raised his head, shivering slightly; his fur was damp with the rain, and the wet smell of the precipitation masked many scents. His head still throbbed dully from the punch de Silva had rendered – he had expected the other wolf to attack in wolf form – somehow, changing back into a human to simply render him unconscious with a punch felt a little like cheating!

There was no scent of wolf on the floor, walls or in the breeze, only damp and dirt and cold rain… However, there was something distinctive on that wet breeze... He sniffed again, closing his eyes; tasting the air as a connoisseur samples fine food.

Padding forwards, he followed the metallic smell. He paused a few times, and pricked up his ears. The two smaller wolves had stopped calling to each other, and seemed to have disappeared into the night to lick their own wounds. Watson had already concluded that they were no threat at the moment.

Watson made his way down another alley between the back entrances of a row of shops, and found a gated entrance to a yard used for storing rubbish. The gate was ajar, and he forced his way in, following the new scent. There, he stopped, hesitating. The smell was overpowering, calling to him, but he resisted. Stepping slowly forwards, he sniffed cautiously.

There… between two bins, there lay the body of a man. From the smell of him, he was homeless, a beggar, recently dead – very recently. The blood at his throat was still wet, glistening in the rain. Watson crossed over to him, and sniffed deeply. He'd been dead for no more than an hour, but the rain had washed away most of the other smells. His throat had been slit; he had clearly bled to death, but there was little blood around the scene, likely soaked away by the incessant rainfall. Watson cursed the weather for the thousandth time that evening.

He turned away, intending to leave, and then cursed his own lack of attention; a woman stood in the gateway, face pale in the night. She opened her mouth, and screamed; a loud, shrill, terrified sound that made Watson physically flinch. Distantly, a police whistle rent the air in response, and Watson could already hear running footsteps coming in their direction.

With a silent curse, Watson bunched his muscles and leapt. The woman screamed again as he caught the top of the wall, bounded over it, and went tearing off down the alleyway. He encountered Holmes coming from the other direction, no doubt following his own trail of evidence to lead him along the path Watson had taken.

"Run, Holmes!" Watson barked out, quickly, slowing his pace slightly to match the detective's, "dead man in bin store. Police on their way. A woman saw me near the body. Expect Gregson or Lestrade will be over soon; we need to get back to Baker Street!"

Accepting the breathless explanation, Holmes nodded, turned direction, and pursued Watson. He paused before crossing main roads, taking great care not to be seen, before they reached Baker Street.

"Wait here, old fellow," Holmes gestured, "I shall open the door…"

Holmes crossed the road, opened the front door and stepped inside, leaving the door open. Watson checked every direction, sniffed the air, and, convinced that the coast was clear; he bounded across the road and leapt through the open door. Holmes closed it quickly behind him, even as Watson made his way slowly and quietly up the stairs to his chamber.

Holmes stepped up and into the sitting room, and, several minutes later, Watson joined him. Holmes was amused to note that Watson's hair was wet from the rain, even as the doctor rubbed it dry with a towel. There was an impressive bruise on his face which was fading quickly, even as Holmes watched in fascination. Watson gave him a dark-eyed glare, as if challenging him to say anything, as the doctor settled himself in his armchair.

"I should like to know what it was you saw, Watson," Holmes said, as he crossed to the sideboard and poured them a brandy each, "You mentioned a body?"

"Yes. I lost the scent of the Count, but when I caught the smell of blood, I followed that trail instead, thinking that the Count had killed again," Watson replied, accepting the drink, with a mutter of thanks, "It was a homeless man, with his throat slit – and it wasn't the Count that killed him, though. I was investigating, but a woman saw me and screamed."

"I heard," Holmes responded, dryly.

Watson opened his mouth to continue, but a pounding on the front door stalled him. Knowing Mrs Hudson was still abed; Watson gave Holmes a quick nod, and ducked out of the room to answer the door himself. He checked his appearance in the hall mirror first – the bruise had faded, but exhaustion and a lingering headache gave his eyes unappealing dark circles. At least his hair had properly dried. Feigning an air of casual sleepiness, as if about to turn in for the night, Watson opened the door to find Inspector Gregson standing there, rain soaked, pale-faced and wide awake.

"Inspector?"

"Is Holmes awake?"

"Of course; come on in."

"Doctor, I would rather the two of you came out, if you can – we have found a body, in most unusual circumstances…"

Watson heard footsteps on the stair behind him, and turned to greet Holmes as he came down to greet them, already reaching for his coat and pulling it on.

"A body, you say, Gregson?" Holmes commented, in a vaguely disinterested tone, "Under what unusual circumstances? Not another dog attack, is it? If it is, I am not interested. I have already given my advice on that matter."

"Oh, you'll see, Mr Holmes," Gregson said, sounding more worried than Watson had ever heard him, "you'll see…"

* * *

_Ah, yes; Scotland Yard. Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson – worse than a pair of bickering children, and at their throats more often than wolves over territory! As often as I was called upon to shed the light of my deductive prowess on their clumsy investigations, I was forced to bring a cloak of dark deception over them, lest they accidentally uncover your secret. _

_I was not to realise at the time that they were not our enemy._

* * *

Holmes suppressed his amusement as Gregson led him through the alleyways and back streets that he and Watson had run through scarcely an hour before.

"He looks like a beggar," Gregson was saying, as they jogged along the paths, twisting and turning towards the bin store, "another one of the poor buggers…his throat was cut, but there was very little blood… well, you'll see…"

Holmes glanced back at Watson; the doctor was being careful to maintain the pretence of the limp he had sustained years before, and which had become such a natural part of his gait that it would have been remarked upon had he kept an easier pace. Holmes knew that Watson could easily have outrun both himself and Gregson, whether as a human or a wolf, and he smiled inwardly at his friend's admirable caution in maintaining his façade.

Eventually, they reached the bin store. There was a woman sobbing to one side, outside of the gate; Holmes's slight glance in Watson's direction and the doctor's almost imperceptible nod confirmed that this was the woman who had seen him in wolf-form and had screamed so piercingly.

"In here," Gregson gestured, "the woman found the body – she won't admit it, but I think she's one of the local whores. She says that she heard a noise in the yard, came to see, and discovered the body. She said that standing over it was a gigantic dog, apparently licking the blood from the man's throat! The gigantic hound, Holmes – it must be the one that killed the other vagrant! We've had other reports in the area of dogs fighting in an alley nearby – at least three of them – we've got constables all over the area looking for the brute, with instructions to shoot it on sight."

Holmes felt Watson stiffen slightly beside him. Shooting a werewolf with anything but a silver bullet would do little but irritate the creature – if any of those constables were unlucky enough to come across the Count, they would not live to see the morning.

In his pocket, Holmes felt the weight of the gun he had grabbed on the way out – he was forced to carry it, for Watson could not. In each of the six chambers was a perfectly cast silver bullet.

However, Holmes said nothing, but simply raised his eyebrows to Gregson.

"Pray, Inspector, continue," Holmes invited him, as he crossed to the body, and crouched down.

"Well, one of the constables on the search heard this woman scream and came running, thinking she was about to become our next victim," Gregson advised them, as Watson knelt beside the body, opposite to Holmes, running his expert eye over the unfortunate decedent, "He didn't see the dog, but he did see the body."

"Where did the dog go?" Holmes asked, deliberately not looking at Watson.

"She says it leapt clean over the wall," Gregson replied, doubtfully, casting a glance at the nine-foot-high brick structure surrounding the compound, "I know we're on the look-out for a massive dog, but… that man's throat… well, it wasn't a dog that did that."

"Indeed," Holmes agreed, as he inspected the corpse, "this gash was made by an extremely sharp knife, at least seven inches long, I should think, with a slightly curved blade. The cut is deep, and there is great strength behind it, from a right-handed person with long finger-nails, if the marks in the skin are anything to judge by. But, I do not recognise what weapon would have made these underlying marks…"

Gregson made a noise of agreement.

"Holmes?" Watson leaned forward in interest.

Holmes pointed; "Here, Watson; two puncture wounds beneath the slash…"

Watson leaned in, and examined the wound carefully, sniffing subtly so as not to alert Gregson to the unusual nature of the examination he was making.

Holmes leaned over the body as well, and murmured to Watson; "Licking the blood?"

"I assure you not, Holmes!" Watson hissed; his face colouring slightly with indignation and revulsion. Despite the more bloodthirsty tendencies shown by the few other werewolves Holmes had met, Watson had, thankfully, never shown any inclinations in that regard.

Holmes gave a low chuckle; "I never doubted you, my dear fellow."

"Distract Gregson for a moment, will you, old chap?"

Holmes nodded, and glanced over at the Inspector. Getting to his feet, he took the Inspector to one side, turning him away from the body, but giving Holmes a clear view.

"Who else has seen the puncture wounds?" Holmes demanded, eyeing Gregson meaningfully.

"Not the woman, but certainly the constables," the Inspector replied, "Holmes, there's hardly any blood! The lads are already starting to mutter about vampires! Next they'll be telling me they think a werewolf killed the other vagrant. It'll be ghouls in the basement next."

"Feeble-minded nonsense," Holmes said, airily, "Tell them to keep their opinions to themselves, lest they cause a panic. No; my theory is that this man was killed elsewhere and then dumped here."

"Why, Holmes? Why slit the throat of a beggar somewhere and then carry him here to leave him pretty much in plain sight?"

"I do not know yet," Holmes replied, "and I fail to see why I should get involved. For all we know, it was nothing more than a drunken brawl. Why call me in? I have a very busy case load at present…"

"The puncture wounds… the lack of blood… the sighting of that massive dog…"

"The man clearly was not killed by a dog, and the woman is almost crazed out of her mind with hysteria," Holmes replied, dismissively, "no dog could clear that wall in a single leap, unless you think that the hound of the Baskervilles has come back to life and is stalking the streets of London…?"

"But Holmes… the puncture wounds…"

"Could easily have been pre-mortem, or caused in the fight," Holmes replied, "an intriguing addition to the case, no doubt, but I decline to attach any significance to the wounds. Surely, in this modern day and age, you do not believe in vampires, Gregson. Inspector Lestrade would be most amused at that..."

Over the Inspector's shoulder, Holmes could see Watson leaning over the corpse, sniffing intently and examining the man's body. He glanced up, and nodded to Holmes. The detective turned his gaze fully towards Watson, even as Gregson turned.

"He died about two hours ago," Watson reported, as they approached, "throat was cut, obviously, single slice, with some strength. The rain seems to have washed away a lot of the blood – either that; or he was killed elsewhere. The puncture wounds are superficial, not the cause of death, nor contributory."

"Are there any other traces on the body?" Gregson asked, quickly.

"Traces of what – a gigantic hound, or maybe a vampire?" Watson quipped, to Holmes's dry chuckle, "Sorry, Inspector – it looks to me like a drunken fight gone too far; the man reeks of alcohol, and there's no money on him. I'd say he got drunk, had a fight, was killed in the scuffle and then robbed."

Gregson made a non-committal noise, and then gave a sharp whistle, ordering two constables to arrange to have the body taken away. Holmes and Watson lingered long enough to see it go, and bade farewell to Gregson.

* * *

_I recall our investigations after your Change were also different; I relied on you more than I ever had. Always remember, dear Watson, that you were invaluable to me even before your change. Without your popular writings of our little adventures, fictionalised though they were, I would never have become such a household name, attracting clients from all over the world, let alone __London__. You were always the human face of our investigations; your empathy was the sharp contrast to my intellect, and your medical skill was virtually unparalleled in forensic circles, even by police surgeons with twice your years of experience. _

_And yet you still followed me with such loyalty, that to this day I am at a loss to comprehend. I do not understand – I doubt I ever will – what I did to deserve such unbidden devotion. _

_Man's best friend, indeed!_

_

* * *

_**A/N: **Another long chapter... where am I going with this? As soon as my muse gets his butt back in here and stops looking at tattoo magazines, I'll let you know.


	5. Chapter 5

_I will confess, Watson, that I continue to experience a small amount of pride when I deduce something that you have not – despite your enhanced senses, sometimes you still see without truly observing! I had known from our first meeting that de Silva was most likely to be our wolf – there is something that makes you stand out amongst normal men that is as distinctive to me as a scent would be to you. It is in the way you walk, your posture, the way you speak and the look in your eyes. _

_You are ever the gentleman, Watson, but beneath all of that there is something else that lurks. It is less obvious in you than in any other wolf or vampire that we have encountered before or since your Change. _

_It is the feral nature of a beast. _

* * *

Holmes and Watson made it back to Baker Street in the early hours of the morning, a couple of hours before the sun would rise. Holmes snatched up his pipe, filling and lighting it with fluid motions borne of practice. Watson dropped heavily into his armchair, feeling immensely tired, even as he picked up his forgotten brandy of earlier.

"Well, Watson?" Holmes said, with only the slightest trace of impatience, "What do you deduce from the body, beyond my own observations? The man was drunk, a beggar, had not been in a fight, and did some casual work down at the docklands, judging by the rope-burn calluses on his hands and the mud I observed on his shoes and trousers, along with the old mariner's tattoo on his neck."

"There were trace scents left upon the body," Watson confirmed, "He was killed in that bin yard, no doubt he was foraging for food, the poor soul. Something attacked him, slit his throat, and drained the blood from the body. As for the culprit, I could smell nothing particularly concrete; alcohol and blood were the most overpowering, certainly, but there was the vaguest trace of something else… Holmes, I am sure I detected a scent of death other than that upon the body. Very, very similar to Bryce's smell, but disguised somehow; either by perfume or cologne, certainly with some sort of musk…"

"You said 'something', not 'someone'," Holmes commented, with a dry smile, "Then there is, indeed, a vampire, as Gregson's men so fancifully suggested," Holmes sat down and leaned back in his chair, half-closing his eyes as he laced his fingers together and stared into the fire, "my suspicions grow deeper, Watson, ever deeper…"

Watson nodded, sleepily, barely able to keep his eyes open. He found that shifting between wolf form and human form was exhausting, and the longer he spent as a wolf, the more tired he was afterwards. Holmes favoured him with a smile, and rose slowly.

"I think it is high time that we both retired," the detective commented, "we did not find the Countess, but we found something far more intriguing… no less than two more werewolves in addition to our existing mystery lycanthrope, whom we now know to be the Count, and an unidentified vampire!"

"This city is beginning to resemble something out of a penny-dreadful horror novel," Watson yawned, "good night, Holmes – I'm sorry that we didn't have more success."

"Do not dwell on it, Watson," Holmes replied, softly, "I doubt that we have seen the last of the Count de Silva…"

Watson nodded already making his way up to his chambers. By the time he made it there, he was all but out on his feet. Pausing only to remove his shoes, collar and tie, he collapsed onto the bed, and was asleep before his aching head hit the pillow.

* * *

_You tamed the beast within you, Watson – at first it nearly overwhelmed you, but you are the strongest man I have ever known. I had no doubts that you would survive it, just as you survived Maiwand, and of course our own multiple adventures together, none so testing as your ordeal with the Hound of the Baskervilles! _

_My poor Watson… what trials you faced, in those early days, and how hard we fought to keep your secret!_

* * *

It seemed like no time at all when Watson suddenly found himself being awakened by an insistent knocking at the door. Levering himself up onto his elbow, he reached out for his new gold-plated pocket watch – his silver one now caused him too many difficulties, and he had been forced to give it to Holmes after burning his fingers on it one too many times. Retrieving the watch from his bedside table, he peered at it, sleepily. It was barely seven thirty in the morning; he reckoned that meant he'd had about three hours' sleep. He groaned, as someone knocked at the door again.

"Come in, Mrs Hudson," he called, suppressing another yawn. Holmes would not bother knocking; he would have simply stormed in. Besides, Watson had already recognised his landlady's scent.

"Good morning, doctor," the housekeeper and landlady swept in, a tray balanced against her hip, "Mr Holmes asked me to bring you some coffee, and asks that you join him as soon as you are able; we have just received a wire to say that the Count de Silva intends to visit at eight o'clock."

"A rather early hour to be visiting," Watson commented, sitting up a little more, suddenly aware that he was still wearing his clothes from the night before, "thank you, Mrs Hudson – I'll be down in a few minutes."

Mrs Hudson nodded and ducked out. Watson got up, washed, shaved, and changed into fresh clothes, donning a collar and tie even as he was drinking the coffee. Tired though he may be, his werewolf constitution was extremely tough, and, aided by the caffeine, he soon felt much improved. He made it down stairs in time to snatch a couple of crumpets from the plate on the table, even as Holmes drew his attention to the headlines in the newspapers.

"'Hell-Hound Haunts London'," Watson read aloud, "'Police and dog-catchers alike are on the lookout for a gigantic hound responsible for the death of a vagrant and suspected of having been involved in the murder of another…' Well, really!"

"Indeed," Holmes nodded, dryly, "so much for not causing a panic. Watson, you must be careful not to be seen in your wolf-form unaccompanied… I have no wish for you to be cornered by our erstwhile friends at the Yard or an over-enthusiastic dog catcher."

Watson was about to reply, but a knock on the front door signified the arrival of their visitor. He braced himself – he had no doubt that the Count had recognised his scent last night, and would now know his deepest secret; why he had chosen to come back to Baker Street was a mystery to Watson.

"Be on your guard, Watson," Holmes murmured, emerging from his chambers, adjusting his own tie quickly, "I cannot think that the Count brings us good tidings."

"Understood, Holmes," Watson nodded, even as he began to open several windows, "Good Lord, I can smell his aftershave from here; it's another completely different brand. He must use a bottle a day!"

"No doubt it is to hide the scent of his true nature from others," Holmes murmured, and Watson nodded in silent agreement.

Holmes made no further comment as Watson took up a standing position next to Holmes's chair, one hand tightly gripping the backrest. The sitting-room door opened, and Mrs Hudson announced the Count de Silva. Holmes felt Watson tense beside him, and held up a cautionary hand to his colleague as de Silva entered the room. Mrs Hudson ducked out, and there was a long moment of silence as the three men stared at each other appraisingly.

It was, of course, de Silva who spoke first; "My own colognes disguise my scent from those who wish me harm in this city, but they impair my sense of smell. I suspected the scent when I first came here, but I thought it merely a visitor to your chambers, one whose nature you did not know. I now realise better. Which of you is it?"

Holmes did not move a fraction of an inch as he spoke; "I see no reason to enlighten you. I am curious as to your… non-lethal attack last night."

The Count narrowed his eyes, and sniffed deeply.

"You stand too close, and my nose is too confused… I cannot distinguish your scents," he growled, "but you… the way you stand, the look in your eyes… ah, yes. The good doctor. Who would have thought one with such a humanitarian calling would be lycanthrope? Hah! Do you feed on your own patients?"

"I will never eat human flesh," Watson snapped, his revulsion clear, "such barbarism… never."

Holmes snapped up a hand between them, forestalling any argument; "Count de Silva…" he turned his steely, grey-eyed gaze upon the big man, who glared down at him in contempt, "We know your true nature, just as you know Watson's. You cannot threaten to make that knowledge public – you would be dismissed as a lunatic. So; that knowledge does you little use. If you have come here to threaten us, you will find us… difficult… to dissuade."

"I have not come to threaten," de Silva replied, gritting his teeth, as he produced a large purse from his pocket, "here is your promised fee, Mr Holmes – a king's ransom in notes and gold coin. You will take no further interest in my affairs… you, on the other hand…" de Silva turned his gaze on Watson, fixing him with a predatory grin, "You will assist me in locating my errant wife."

"I refuse," Watson replied, defiantly, "I suspect that you wish to kill her as much as she apparently wishes to kill you. I want no part in murder."

"You will not have a choice," de Silva told him, turning his back, "if you value the life of your human friend and landlady, you will go out tonight and locate my wife. I will haunt your steps until you do…"

Holmes remained seating, but his eyes blazed with fury, as he snapped; "I care not the reason why you desire each other dead, but mark this; you will not carry out such a nefarious deed in my city, and Watson will not assist you in your endeavour!"

"Your city?" the Count's eyes narrowed as he glared at Holmes, with a disdainful sniff, "Ha! You are pathetic, Holmes. A human can claim no territory over that of a wolf. Do not attempt to get in my way, or I will tear out your throat!"

"I think it is time that you left, Count de Silva," Holmes answered, coldly, "pray, sir, leave my lodgings and do not return – we will have no part in the murder of either party!"

Count de Silva gave a wordless snarl of anger, and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Holmes was on his feet as soon as the front door slammed, hard enough to rattle the whole house.

"Your hat and coat, Watson, quickly," Holmes told him, "We must find the elusive Countess before the Count does. I fear we must keep them from killing each other, and I doubt that you are safe from the Count either…"

Holmes paused at the threshold of the front door, his eyes shining with anticipation.

"I suspect, my dear fellow, that this may be one of our most challenging cases to date!"

* * *

_I was correct, Watson, as I profess I usually am. Had I realised, however, the truth of that statement, I might not have been quite so flippant. If my enthusiasm for a case ever outweighed my sense of self-preservation, never was it more obvious than in this particular matter. But it was you that suffered as a consequence, not I._

_For that, above all else, I am sorry._

* * *

"I am satisfied that we shall be able to locate the Countess as soon as we need to," Holmes said, conversationally, as they donned their coats and left their lodgings quickly, "however, I am certain that the Count now also knows where she is staying – he attempts to dismiss my services and press-gang yours…"

"Why me, Holmes? He has made it clear he feels no pack mentality… he would rather see me dead."

"I think that is what he plans. I suspect that the Countess has discovered her husband's… unusual nature, and this is the reason she plans to kill him. No doubt she has armed herself appropriately, and will shoot on sight…"

"On sight of a werewolf," Watson realised, grimly, "ah. He plans to use me as a decoy."

"We shall not give him the opportunity," Holmes replied, with a brief smile of reassurance, "Now, my dear fellow – we are simply out for a morning stroll… nonchalance is key. Can you follow the Count's scent? I should like to follow him at a safe distance."

"Quite easily, Holmes," Watson assured him, "his cologne and cigar smoke do linger…"

Watson set an easy, relaxed pace, and the two of them walked together, appearing for all reasonable purposes as two gentlemen simply out for a stroll in the early morning sunshine, weak as it was. Watson led the way down Baker Street and then along several adjoining thoroughfares, pausing only momentarily on occasion to get his bearings.

"It occurs to me, Holmes," he said, eventually, in a quiet voice, "that the Count saw fit to disguise his scent… I had thought, at first, he was ensuring any local wolf would not be able to identify him in passing him in the street… but I think he was trying to conceal his scent from those other two we encountered."

"I quite agree," Holmes inclined his head, allowing Watson to lead the way down a narrow side-street, "Although I did glimpse those two briefly last night, and clearly they are no match for the Count at all. One wonders why they tried…"

"Wolf mentality, I'm afraid," Watson replied, airily, "from what I've seen, we're a fairly anti-social race when it comes to fellow wolves. Hemmingway would happily rip my throat out if he thought he was strong enough, and tells me so on a regular enough basis… I think he's scared I'll do the same to him one day! I don't know what makes me so different to other wolves, I really don't."

"One day, we may discover the reason, Watson. For now, let us simply be grateful for it."

* * *

_My own investigations have leant me no little skill in making great deductive leaps despite a paucity of evidence. You are adept at following a trail, but without a scent you are somewhat lost. It is not a failing, Watson; I have always considered that you are a remarkable detective in your own right, and I should remove the beam from my own eye, so to speak, when it comes to the subject of addressing personal shortfalls. _

_Our trail was hot, Watson, I remember the thrill of the chase so well, as I always do when I am on a scent of my own. I am no wolf, but when I catch my prey's scent, I will hunt it to the ground. _

_I am ever grateful that you were by my side in such hunts. You lacked the lone-wolf mentality that so many other lycanthropes seem to possess. _

_Can our partnership be described as a pack? There were others, certainly; Mrs Hudson, the Irregulars, even the men at Scotland Yard… _

_Yes, my dear Watson; I think it is safe to say that we are your pack, and we are as loyal to you as you are to us._

* * *

They kept walking at their sedate pace for more than an hour, working their way through ever-narrowing side streets and back alleys. The Count seemed to be doing his level best to ensure that he was not being followed, and that he would not be seen. Watson began to pick up the pace.

"The trail is dissipating quickly – he's running now," Watson hissed, "come on, Holmes!"

Watson took off at a run; Holmes gamely matched the pace, realising that Watson was holding back for him to keep up. He did not comment; he knew that he could not face the Count on his own, and nor did he wish Watson to go it alone. Still, it was now slightly galling that he was the slower member of their partnership!

They ran together, Holmes only a pace or two behind Watson, coats flapping in behind them as they pounded down the slick cobbled streets, narrowly avoiding collisions with other pedestrians, receiving angry shouts to mark their passing. Watson dived into a narrow alley between two buildings, strewn with rubbish and reeking of decay. Holmes followed him around a corner behind the building, and could not stop in time.

Holmes let out a surprised cry as Watson was suddenly thrown backwards, colliding with him and sending them both sprawling into the dirt. Holmes scrambled up just in time to see Count de Silva leap over Watson, and set off at a run down the narrow alleyway. Holmes observed, even as he launched himself after the Count, that despite his lycanthropic enhancements, the Count was a much slower runner than himself or Watson – no doubt because of his size and heavier build. So! At least they had the advantage of speed…

The Count disappeared around a corner, keeping between the buildings. Holmes slowed his pace accordingly; he might not have heightened senses, but he could no longer hear running footsteps… no doubt the Count had stopped, and was lying in wait for him. Holmes would not run blindly into a trap. He glanced quickly behind him. He could see no sign of Watson, and muttered a curse. He hoped that the doctor had not been incapacitated, and mentally berated himself for not stopping to check. He had seen the damage a wolf could do to another… he shook the thoughts from his mind, focussing on the task at hand.

Holmes paused as a cat, scared by something, mewled and ran past him, fur sticking out on end, tail bushed out, eyes wide with terror. He noted the animal's reaction, knowing immediately what had terrified it so. When he looked up and saw what was prowling towards him, his grim conclusion was confirmed.

"Ah," he said, backing up slowly, assessing his options, "Count de Silva, I presume?"

The massive wolf-hound stopped in its tracks, and gave a low growl. The Count threw back his head and gave a sharp bark followed by a brief howl; before he cocked his head to one side, listening for a full minute.

"There is no answer," he told Holmes, at last, "No one claims you for their own; there are none willing to fight for your life. Your friend has left you and your throat is mine, Holmes."

"Did you really expect an answer in daylight?" Holmes scoffed, "The wolves in this city are respectable men with decent jobs; they couldn't respond to you now even if they wanted to. What did you do to Watson?"

"Wolves? Plural? I knew of no packs in England… the odd partnership, perhaps, but I did not realise that there was more than one wolf in London."

"There are," Holmes confirmed; "Now, answer my question – what have you done to Watson? Where is he?"

"I doubt he will wake up any time soon," de Silva replied, baring his sharp teeth in a hideous approximation of a smile, "Were it not for the fact that I have need of him, I would have killed him on sight. We are fairly solitary creatures by nature, unlike our pack-wolf cousins," de Silva paused, sniffing the air cautiously, "I was expecting to be attacked by the two mongrel half-lings… I knew of their presence. I did not realise that there were others."

"At least one more, other than Watson, to my knowledge," Holmes tempted him towards conversation, even as his mind desperately searched for a way out of the situation, "And now that you have announced yourself to him, he will be very keen to meet you…"

Holmes did not think for one minute that Hemmingway would venture out of the Diogenes to face up to this monster – the elderly wolf was terrified enough of poor Watson!

"You prevaricate, Holmes. I can smell it on you."

Holmes backed up slowly, but de Silva's wordless snarl stopped him. Holmes mentally cursed himself; if he even reached for the special revolver in his pocket, the Count could cut him down before his hand was even half-way there. He took the opportunity to observe the creature before him by the light of day, even as he continued to back away slowly, trying to put enough distance between them that he might, somehow, escape…

The wolf-form of de Silva was much bigger than Watson's; much heavier and more muscular, with yellowish eyes and shaggy brown fur. It was amazing how much the characteristics of the human body translated into the wolf-form; Holmes could see the Count's arrogant swagger even in the way the wolf walked.

The Count bared his teeth, fur bristling, as he crouched for the pounce.

"I shall enjoy the taste of your blood on my tongue, Holmes!"

* * *

_O, Watson – those teeth, and the malice in his eyes! However did you face down that terrible Hound all alone on that fateful night in __Dartmoor__?_

_

* * *

_

_**A/N: **Okay, it's sort of a cliff-hanger... Holmes's journal makes it kind of obvious what happens next... I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it! Might be able to update again later today, if not it will be Sunday. Sorry, life gets in the way sometimes..._


	6. Chapter 6

_It appears to me that a lycanthrope's greatest assets are his strength and his imperviousness to harm. Though you have, of course, several weaknesses, the one trait that I notice most in all wolves – and over the years, we have met and conversed with many, both friend and foe – is their unfailing determination. You, my dear fellow, are stubborn to the core, and this was only enhanced by that dogged – if you will excuse the pun – determination of a wolf on the hunt. _

_De Silva was a fool. He was old, crafty, strong and determined, but nonetheless he was a fool. _

_He was a fool because he underestimated his opponent. I pray, Watson, that you will never make the same mistake._

* * *

Holmes braced himself to run, despite knowing that he could never outpace the wolf even if, by some miracle, he avoided the initial attack. The Count's thick, bushy tail wafted from side to side slowly, as he coiled himself up, muscles bunched, ready to pounce on his helpless prey.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," another voice cut calmly through the growls of the Count, "This gun contains silver bullets, Jeremiah."

Holmes raised his eyes, even as the wolf-Count turned. Standing behind the werewolf was a tall woman, her arm outstretched, the early morning sun glittering on the polished barrel of a revolver. She glared at him with undisguised malevolence, scowling. The Count growled at her, turning his back on Holmes.

Holmes assessed the woman with a glance. She wore mourning black; a long, billowing dress with a tight bodice and an oversized hat, accompanied by a veil that covered her face. Her hands were hidden under black silk gloves, and beneath the veil her face was pale and thin, with shadowed, grey eyes. Tucked under her hat were tresses of dark brown hair, and she moved with the haughty grace of a woman used to being superior to everyone around her.

"You are Holmes?" she asked, directly, glancing at him only briefly.

Holmes nodded, carefully, all too aware of the danger he found himself in; "I am, madam. I presume you to be the Countess Teresa de Silva."

Beneath her veil, the woman twitched a small smile and inclined her head. Holmes did not fail to notice the revelation of a small, sharp fang as she did so, and his suspicions were confirmed. It was then that Holmes saw the movement behind her, and he quirked his eyebrow slightly when he observed, flanking the Countess, the two smaller wolves he had seen briefly the preceding night.

"Isaac! Ishtar!" she snapped at them each in turn, "Stay back, you stupid dogs – you are no match for this creature!"

The two wolves at her side growled defensively. Count de Silva snarled back at them, but the smaller wolves were not dissuaded this time, Holmes noted with interest.

"I have no quarrel with you, Mr Holmes," the Countess said, quietly, "you may leave, if you wish – I will dispatch this flea-bitten mongrel, I will leave your city. No one will remark the death of a stray mutt…"

"I beg to differ, madam – this man has already killed one man, and may have seriously injured a friend of mine. I have my own investigations at hand…"

"You cannot hope to best him. I am surprised that you take this so calmly – clearly you understand what he is!"

"You stupid witch," the Count snarled, "he works with a bloody werewolf! There's more than one in this city – kill me, and you won't get far with these rotten half-breeds!"

Holmes observed the growls of the two smaller wolves – could that account for their size? Were they the offspring of a mixed race? Fascinating! He opened his mouth to ask a question, but was cut off when the Count let out a sharp bark.

"Drop that gun and give in, vampire," he growled at her, "I promise I'll make it quick…"

"Oh, be silent, Jeremiah!" she replied, "I have won; and I will have your pelt adorning the floor of the hall. You will make a wonderful rug – much better than having a mangy cur for a husband. First of all, though – Mr Holmes…"

She barely flicked him a glance, keeping her attention focussed on her husband; "You will leave now, Mr Holmes, and you will make no attempt to follow me. If you do, Isaac and Ishtar will tear you apart. Is that understood?"

Holmes was about to protest, when a low growl rent the air. Relief flooded through him, even as the Countess's eyes widened in fear. She did not turn, however, too afraid to turn her back on her husband and too terrified to face what was now behind her. Isaac, the wolf to her left, identifiable by a patch of white fur on the tip of his nose, gave a low whine, even as Ishtar growled, turning to face this new threat.

"Caution, my dear fellow, that gun contains silver bullets," Holmes warned.

Watson paced slowly up the alleyway, growling, his head low and teeth bared; "Don't trust her, Holmes – she's the vampire."

"I had already surmised as much, old chap," Holmes replied, calmly, "well, Countess – what do you propose to do now?"

"I am so glad you asked, Mr Holmes… Ishtar! Issac! Tear him apart!"

Holmes had no time to react, as the two wolves sprang towards him, and a single shot echoed through the alleyway.

* * *

_I remember all too well the day you turned to me, and asked me how to make a silver bullet. The implication of your statement chilled me to the core, but not just that. I saw the doubt in your eyes – you were afraid of what you had become, and you doubted your own ability to control it. You were asking the very worst of me, Watson._

_You were asking me if I was capable of ending your life._

* * *

Hearing a very canine yelp of pain, Holmes saw the flurry of fur, and saw a wolf's body crash heavily to the ground. For one horrible instant, he thought that it was Watson.

Holmes's hand went to his coat pocket for his own specially-laden gun, but he was too slow. The first of the wolves crashed into him, slamming him to the ground. Stunned and winded, he managed to roll out of the way of a snapping jaw closing shut on air where previously his face had been. Blindly, he lashed out with a punch and was surprised – and pleased – when he was rewarded with a pained yelp. Then, suddenly, the weight pinning him down was gone. Barks and yelps split the air. Holmes forced himself into a sitting position, against the wall, scrabbling for the gun in his pocket. Drawing it, he tried to find a target, but the fight was too tumultuous for him to be sure of his target – he was relieved to see Watson amidst the fray, his distinctive size and markings making him easy to identify.

The doctor had obviously come to his aid, having decided to change forms again; a wolf-shape was more effective against other wolves, no doubt. Now, he struggled against Holmes's assailants, as the two of them clawed and bit at him viciously – no sooner would he have thrown one of them off than the other would be back, snapping and snarling, sinking teeth and claws into flesh and hanging on to Watson's back, preventing him from striking an effective blow.

With Ishtar clinging to him in such a fashion, Watson suddenly flung himself to one side, rolling over and successfully dislodging his unwanted passenger. Ishtar scrambled upright onto all fours, as Isaac growled menacingly. Watson turned on them and growled back; Holmes scarcely dared breathe – he had never heard such ferocity from his friend.

"I will not kill you," Watson snarled at the two of them, "but I warn you – do not threaten this man ever again. And know this – kill any human in this city and I will not hesitate to hunt you down."

He bared his teeth in a loud snarl to emphasise his words, and, as if on an unspoken agreement, Isaac and Ishtar let out a joint yelp and ran, tails between their hind legs. Watson sat down slowly, cautiously – Holmes could see from the exaggerated care with which he moved that his friend was hurt, and blood shone on his matted fur. Holmes slowly stood.

The wolf-form body of the Count lay dead in the alley, a small, neat hole between his eyes, which stared sightlessly after the two retreating wolves. Holmes crouched beside it. The Countess had not been lying – there, in the wound, was the glitter of silver. Holmes cursed under his breath – there was nothing he could do to hide either the bullet or the body. He wondered what Scotland Yard would make of this, and almost smiled at the thought.

Quickly, he crossed back to Watson, who was beginning to pull himself together, though he was panting somewhat breathlessly.

"Are you badly hurt, my dear fellow?"

"Just a few minutes, Holmes," Watson panted, "and it will heal… are you… did they…?"

"Neither of them managed to bite me," Holmes reassured him, quickly, "my skin is unbroken, I assure you."

Watson nodded, and then let his head drop, lying down on the cold stone of the pavement. Holmes stood over him, glancing around – thus far, they had been unobserved, but… in the distance, a police whistle sounded, and Holmes suppressed a groan. With the stories in the morning papers about a hellish hound haunting the streets of London and tearing people limb from limb, the beat constables were on the lookout for any large dog…

"I am sorry, Watson – we must make ourselves scarce – we cannot be discovered here, though I must observe what happens!"

Watson pulled himself to his feet. Calling to mind his mental map of London, Holmes led his companion to a small yard not far from the scene. A man, shovelling coal into a wheelbarrow from a bunker in the corner, looked at them in surprise, and not a little fear on sight of Watson. Holmes held up a sovereign, and the man's eyes widened.

"You did not see us."

"See who?"

The sovereign and the man disappeared, and Holmes peered out through the gate, as Watson sat beside him, wounds gradually and miraculously healing, though he remained utterly exhausted. Holmes waited for as long as he dared, hearing the noise and movement in the nearby alleyway, as the police began to arrive. He glanced down at Watson.

"I know that you're tired, old chap, and I know you want to change back, but I think we have no choice. I will need to pass you off as an ordinary hound for now… can you manage it?"

"Of course, Holmes. Lead the way."

* * *

"So you've found your big dog then, Gregson?" Lestrade teased.

Gregson sighed. There was no reason for his fellow Inspector to be lurking around his case, but he knew Lestrade had received a chewing out from the Superintendent that morning. This was for not having gotten anywhere with the missing person case of Sir Isaiah Bryce, and for daring to suggest that the man's disappearance was voluntary following the murder of a couple of whores. Gregson had a feeling that Lestrade was licking his wounds, so to speak, in his favourite manner – mocking Gregson.

"Dog? It's a bloody monster," Gregson snorted, examining the beast lying in front of him, "Don't tell me you've ever seen a dog this big before!"

"Well, there was that case in Dartmoor with Holmes," Lestrade replied, folding his arms and admiring the dead creature that lay in the alley before them, "but that thing wasn't quite so big as this… what a brute! Who called it in?"

"Someone in one of the houses heard dogs fighting, thought one or both of them might be rabid… heard a gunshot, and went screaming to the nearest constable," Gregson responded, unable to take his eyes off the beast, "We should get it stuffed and mounted – I've never seen anything like it!"

Lestrade crouched down to examine the bullet-hole in the beasts' forehead. A fragment of the bullet was just visible, glittering with an odd brightness in the midday sun. He frowned… was that silver? He was about to direct Gregson's attention to it, when the other Inspector let out a low groan of dismay.

"Oh, Lord – look who's here…"

Lestrade glanced up and then immediately got to his feet, at the sound of a constable voicing a protest, to be snapped at by a very familiar tone. Sure enough, there was Sherlock Holmes, and behind him…

"Come on, Jenkins, let Mr Holmes through!" Lestrade called, and then greeted the detective as he approached, "Afternoon, Mr Holmes… uh… is that your dog?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Holmes replied, curtly, "he belongs to a patient of Dr Watson's. I have borrowed him to, ah, to… to track a scent on one of my private cases. Yes. What is going on here?"

"We have a conclusion to the dog-attack case – the dead vagrant from the other night," Gregson replied, as Lestrade stepped aside, "Look at this brute, Holmes! Looks like it were out on the prowl – someone came across it and shot it."

_With a silver bullet_, Lestrade thought, but did not voice it. He couldn't quite face the derision he would get from Gregson, or from Holmes, for that matter.

"Fascinating specimen," Holmes commented, as the big hound behind him sat down on its haunches. Lestrade stared at it. It stared back. It was huge – not quite the size of the dead brute before him, but still…

"Woof," said the hound, in a bored tone.

Lestrade blinked. Could dogs sound bored? It hadn't actually barked, had it…? No dog ever actually 'said' woof…

"Holmes, your dog just said woof…"

"What other noise do you expect a dog to make?" Holmes said, irritably, "Really, Lestrade, it's about time you took some time off – the strain of work is obviously getting to you."

"Grr," agreed the hound.

Lestrade continued to stare at it, as Holmes made a cursory examination of the dead monster in the alleyway.

"Err…" Lestrade tried to think of something to say to the monstrous-looking creature, "Nice doggy? Good doggy?"

"Oh, really Lestrade!" Holmes snorted.

The big dog let out a low whine and glared at Lestrade, before glancing back at Holmes, who seemed to be doing his best not to laugh. Gregson smirked at his colleague's expression, but Lestrade noticed that his fellow Inspector was also keeping a healthy distance from Holmes's new pet.

"Yes, Gregson, this is definitely the culprit behind the dock-beggar's death," Holmes confirmed, "what do you intend to do with the corpse?"

"Turn it over to a taxidermist, I suppose," Gregson shrugged, "or burn it."

"I suggest the latter. The hound probably came to London aboard a boat from foreign climes – it could be rabid, or worse… burning it will avoid the spread of any nasty parasites it may be carrying."

"Probably a wise idea," Gregson agreed, "Jenkins, Petersen – let's get this thing out of here – take it down to the hospital for incineration!"

The constables moved to obey, as Holmes stepped away from the body, his hand slipping casually into his trouser pocket; "As interesting a diversion as this was, gentlemen, I have a case that awaits my attention. Good day to you!"

"Just a second," Lestrade indicated to the two constables to stop, and he saw Holmes hesitate as well, "I want to have another look at that bullet wound…"

The constables complied, as Lestrade crouched down again. He could no longer see the bullet… but he could have sworn that before, there was the glitter of silver…

"Where's the bullet?" he wondered, aloud.

"Probably in pieces, inside the thing's skull," Holmes replied, "bullets poorly cast often fragment on impact. Were you to study these things you might learn to practice your trade unassisted, Inspector…And as I said previously; a good day to you both, gentlemen!"

With that, he strode off, in the direction of Baker Street. The massive hound glanced at each of the Inspectors once more, and then bounded after the famous detective. Gregson and Lestrade exchanged a look. Gregson finally took pity on his colleague.

"You look done in. Fancy a drink?"

"Bloody hell, yes… Gregson, I swear…"

"You're cracking up. I know. Come on, old fellow – we can discuss my moving into your office when you finally give up under the pressure…"

* * *

Holmes led Watson on a circuitous route around the buildings until they reached the back door to Baker Street. Holmes climbed over the back wall with an ease borne of practice – he had done this numerous times before.

"The coast is clear, old fellow…" Holmes called, from the yard-garden. Watson steeled himself, pounced, and scrambled over the wall in a single leap.

Holmes tried to open the back door, but found it locked. He took out his keys, unlocked it, and stuck his head around the door, glancing around quickly.

"Mrs Hudson!" he bellowed, loudly, "Mrs Hudson!"

There was no reply, and no movement – clearly, their landlady had gone out to run errands. Holmes went all the way inside, and held the door open to permit Watson access. He closed the door, even as Watson was already heading through the kitchen to the hall, his claws clattering on the tiled floor.

"I'm going up to change, Holmes," he said, tiredly, "I… I shall also take a nap, I think…"

"By all means, my dear fellow," Holmes replied, absently, "Do call if you need anything…"

He heard the door close to Watson's chamber, as Holmes went up the stairs to the sitting room. He picked up his pipe, stuffed it to the brim with shag tobacco, lit it, and drew in a deep lungful. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out the smashed remains of the silver bullet that had killed the Count. He was lucky Gregson and Lestrade had been too distracted by Watson to notice him pull it free of the wound with his tweezers – it seemed the silver bullet did not need to penetrate the brain to kill the wolf; the wound had in fact been remarkably shallow. He marvelled at the extent of the weakness to the precious metal, and wondered how Watson had survived the silver knife injury Sir Bryce had inflicted upon him those few weeks previously.

Smoking heavily, Holmes sat down in his armchair, fixed his eyes unseeingly on the mantelpiece, and began to disseminate the problem in his powerful mind. Watson was not like other werewolves. Watson had not been directly converted by a human werewolf, but by the bite of a demonic hound. Somehow, this lent him all of a werewolf's strength and a greater immunity to their weaknesses, but not absolute immunity…

Then there was also the conundrum of Isaac and Ishtar – the Count had called them 'half-breeds' and they seemed oddly loyal to the Countess, a vampire. Why? Were they her offspring? How had a wolf and a vampire come to be husband and wife? The two races hated one another implicitly. What was the reason for this? Why had the former spouses suddenly turned on one another? There were more questions than answers!

One thing was for sure. The Countess was still in London, as Holmes knew that it would be two days before a decent-sized cruise ship docked in the harbour, bound for America. He had already deduced that it would be this ship that the Countess would depart on. On such a long journey, he wondered, grimly, whether there might be unexplained deaths aboard amongst the lower classes of passenger… what should he do? If he apprehended her, how could he prove the murders that she had committed – the beggar and her husband? But then, how in all conscience could he simply allow her to leave England with her two unusual companions, knowing that she would only continue to prey on the weak, lost and vulnerable people, killing them only to drink their blood? The very thought was abhorrent – Holmes had, indeed, killed a vampire before – Sir Bryce – but that had been self-defence…

The problems reeled in his mind as he sank deeper into his chair, selecting one question at a time, disseminating the evidence gleaned from observation and deduction and subjecting the situation to the ice-cold intensity of his logical mind. Eventually, he reached a decision.

He could afford Watson another hours' sleep, and then…

Then they would have to hunt down a vampire.

* * *

_That night haunts me, Watson, as I know the events of afterwards haunt you. I had made a conscious, reasoned decision that if I could not persuade the Countess to give up human blood, then I would have to kill her. Imagine it, Watson – trying to persuade a vampire not to drink blood! I am ever grateful that you were bitten by a wolf, and not one of their nefarious kind…_

_But I, Watson, I… the world's only consulting detective, the great Sherlock Holmes, I had decided that I must deliberately end the life of another sentient creature!_

_I had never foreseen myself as a vampire slayer…_

_Perhaps your Change changed me as well._

_

* * *

**A/N: **For those people commenting/asking; yes, you were right, the Countess is a vampire... yes, there will be more references to the half-breeds and more info in later chapters... and no, I don't know when I'll be able to update again. Sorry._


	7. Chapter 7

_I spent the night alone, reflecting upon the decision I had reached, trying to find an alternative. The Countess had not sought to cause either of us harm; could I really kill her just on the basis that she might kill another vagrant? How many people had she killed, and how many more might there be? How long do vampires live, and how much do they need to drink? _

_I had so many questions, and no answers. So, I did what I always do when I feel lost – no, not the cocaine bottle._

_I went to find you, Watson._

* * *

Watson flinched and snapped awake in an instant at a light tread upon the floor of his room. He blinked his vision into focus – it was late afternoon, and enough sunlight still seeped in through his drawn curtains for him to readily identify his visitor by sight as well and smell.

"Holmes," he murmured, kicking off the blankets of the bed so that he could sit up, "what is it, old fellow?"

"I have reached my conclusion, my dear Watson," Holmes's voice held an uncharacteristic note of uncertainty, "I very much fear that we must locate the Countess, and… possibly… kill her."

Watson hesitated. The same thoughts had been looping around his mind before he had fallen into an exhausted, dreamless sleep. Could they simply let this murderess go, knowing that she would simply kill again and again? But what other choice did they have – arrest her and put her on trial as a vampire?

"Tell me, Holmes," Watson said, quietly, "why must we kill her?"

"Is it not the logical choice, Watson? Is she not a monster who will prey on mankind and feed on the blood of innocents?"

"What about me, Holmes? By the same logic, surely I must die too…"

"Watson," Holmes said, firmly, "you are not a monster. You have never shown any inclination to harm another..."

"Except at full moon…" Watson cast a nervous glance at the diary which sat prominently on his bedside table.

"And we can control that – you wish to control what you are. The Countess does not."

"We should at least offer her the chance…"

"We will. But if she does not take it…"

"I understand," Watson said, quietly, as he got up and crossed to his wardrobe, "but I still don't like it, Holmes! Does any alternative present itself?"

"If one does, I shall be sure to take it," Holmes responded, quietly, "come, Watson – I could use your assistance, in whatever aspect you may choose."

"As I am will draw less attention," Watson decided, pulling out a clean suit, "Holmes, it has been a dry day – if we retrace our footsteps of earlier, I may be able to detect the Countess's trail."

"No need – I have deduced her location," Holmes replied, turning away, "I shall meet you downstairs as soon as you are ready."

Watson dressed quickly, but Holmes was still fidgeting impatiently in the hallway when the doctor finally joined him. Watson selected a sturdy, solid wooden cane from the rack. He no longer needed it to aid his walking, as he might once have done, but he always felt better carrying it, despite its relative uselessness as a weapon compared to his incredible strength and terrifying transformation.

Holmes led the way out of the house, donning his grey hat even as Watson snatched up his own coat and bowler. He followed Holmes in relative silence, each grimly focussed on their task. Holmes hailed a cab, and ordered the cabbie to the West India Docks in Tower Hamlets. Watson glanced surreptitiously at Holmes – as ever, the detective's face was an emotionless, grey mask, but Watson could sense the tension.

"Are you armed, Holmes?" he asked, in a low voice, "I know you're carrying that gun – I can feel it. Effective as it may be against her two wolves, will it work on the Countess?"

"I do not know," Holmes admitted, "trustworthy empirical evidence on the successful killing of a vampire is somewhat hard to come by."

Watson permitted himself a small smile – despite the very real circumstances, to hear such a line spoken in all seriousness by Sherlock Holmes amused him. The cab eventually rattled to a halt. Holmes leapt out and strode off, leaving Watson to pay the cabbie. The doctor waved away the offer of change, knowing it was an extraordinarily generous tip but unable to bring himself to handle the silver coins that were offered, despite the relatively low silver content. He had neglected to bring his usual precaution when handling money – his gloves. Quickly, he followed Holmes towards the Steam Boat Dock.

Suddenly, Holmes grabbed his arm and pulled him down one of the streets, towards a decrepit-looking pub. The paint was peeling from the sign to such an extent that Watson could no longer read the name. A beggar with one leg sat in a pile of rags outside, his hand outstretched for change, looking hopefully at the two well-dressed men. Holmes ignored him, pushing his way into the guest house. Watson hurriedly tossed him a few coppers, and then followed the detective inside.

The working day was clearly over – the bar was filled with a vast assortment of people, mainly in the lower to middle classes. A few beggars and prostitutes were working the crowds, who comprised the slightly poorer passengers awaiting their ships, to the wealthier sailors who were of a higher class than the deckhands without being rich enough to be officers. As such, nobody spared either of them a second glance, if they had even bothered to take a first one.

Holmes crossed straight to the bar, and waited his turn to be served. The barman smiled a tired greeting at his new customer.

"I am looking for a woman," Holmes began, and the barman laughed, bringing a meaty hand down on the bar top with a heavy thump.

"Aren't we all, mate!" he exclaimed, with a suggestive leer, "Well, there are plenty in here tonight – take your pick. My speciality is drink – so what's your poison?"

Holmes curled his lip in distaste at the suggestion; "I seek a very particular woman whom I believe is lodging here. She wears mourning black and has two large hounds with her."

"Ah, yes! Our resident lady… she said she was expecting visitors. Second floor, last door at the end of the corridor – our best room, you can't miss it."

Holmes nodded, and left a few coins on the bar, as he turned back to Watson, and led the way through the crowds to the staircase.

"She expects us, Watson – be on your guard!"

Watson nodded as they climbed the stairs together. They gradually left behind the din of the bar, though the background noise was still audible as they crept down the corridor towards the Countess's room. Holmes hesitated outside the door, listening intently. Watson did the same, and they shared a look – there was no sound of movement from within. Watson pushed Holmes behind him, reaching for the handle. Holmes tried to object, but Watson silenced him with a fierce glare.

"If either of those wolves are in there, I stand a better chance than you do, even with that," Watson told him, eyeing the gun Holmes had drawn, "ready?"

At Holmes's nod, Watson pushed open the door. When there was no sign of an assault, he flung the door wide open, assuring himself that no-one was hiding behind it, as he stepped fully into the room. It was a respectable, tasteful room, in a shabby, tired kind of way. A settee, that would once have been quite luxurious, sat with fading glory and a threadbare appearance in the middle of the room.

There was a writing desk in one corner, a small table and two chairs for dining, and a badly scratched wooden four-poster bed occupied most of the wall to the left of the room. Beside the bed the rest of the wall was occupied by a massive old wardrobe that was riddled with woodworm. To Watson's right, there was a fireplace set into the wall, and in one corner was a door to what was probably the bathroom. A couple of paintings by artists of mediocre talent adorned the walls, all thick with dust. The boarding house was clearly falling into decay, as it had once, apparently, been quite an opulent abode.

Opposite to Watson, the lone window stood wide open – Holmes crossed to it, and found that it led to a wrought-iron outside staircase, no doubt intended as an emergency escape route. He checked the bathroom and shook his head to Watson.

"She has flown the coop, Watson – we are probably too late."

A thought occurred to Watson.

"Do you think she can fly?" he asked, "Or turn into a bat, maybe?"

Holmes gave him a withering look; "We will have to ask her when we find her, won't we?"

Watson was about to reply when Holmes suddenly ducked and stepped through the window, out onto the metal fire escape. He scanned the horizon – the sun was already beginning to set, and this worried him slightly. Sir Bryce, the only other vampire he had encountered to date, had preferred to work at night, and it seemed that the Countess had not only correctly predicted that they would be coming, but had, in all likelihood, set a trap for them.

"Watson, I think that we must…"

A sudden thud behind him announced the arrival of another party to the fire escape, from above – of course! The roof! She had been waiting up there… the realisation was accompanied by Watson's warning shout; "Holmes! Look out!"

Holmes turned. All he saw was a fist that connected solidly with his left cheekbone, and coloured sparks exploded across his vision, fading away to darkness.

* * *

_I have made as great a study of vampires as I have wolves, and they are a truly terrible race. Lycanthropes are comparable to mankind – you are as variable as humanity; we have met wolves who would rather tear out the throat of another than bid them greeting, and others who were as amicable as an old friend, despite their generally blood-thirsty ways at the full moon!_

_But vampires… they are not really dead, nor are they alive. They have feelings, true, but I have never met a vampire that I could trust. There is something in their very presence that provokes the basest instincts of fear; a cold, other-worldliness that marks them as different to any other creature that walks this Earth. _

_Their strength is incredible and their talents variable… and the Countess was a formidable foe indeed._

* * *

"Holmes!" Watson cried out.

The Countess hissed at him, baring her fangs, before she reached down, picked up the unconscious Holmes with one hand, and flung him through the open window with superhuman strength. Watson caught the detective easily, lowering him to the floor, checking for injury. A livid red mark from the punch would soon form into an ugly bruise, and the cheekbone might well have a small fracture, but there was little that Watson could do without his medical kit. He crouched protectively over his friend, glaring at the Countess as she stepped gracefully inside, keeping her fangs bared. She carried an odd bundle, tucked under one arm.

"Dogs!" she called, "Attend to your mother!"

Isaac and Ishtar bounded through the window obediently, and stood at the Countess's side. They growled menacingly, but Watson could smell their fear and the less-than-convincing warning implied by the growls. They were definitely afraid of the Countess… but they were also afraid of him. Good.

"They can't harm me," Watson warned her, "I have already proved I am stronger then they are. And I will not allow them – or you – to hurt Holmes."

"Perhaps at full strength you might be a challenge," she agreed, "but I am what you might call a professional hunter. Catch!"

* * *

_There is an age-old war between the two species. How it began is a long story… it suffices to say that, generally speaking, a wolf will not tolerate a vampire in its territory, and vampires will make sport out of hunting down a wolf. Sir Isaiah Bryce boasted to us of the number of wolf-pelts and heads adorning the halls of his home._

_However, vampires cannot readily identify a wolf when he is in human form, while a wolf knows a vampire immediately by scent. Either side has their own significant advantages and disadvantages, which is possibly why this war was never fought as a large scale battle – it seems to be an ongoing series of personal vendettas between the local factions. _

_The Countess was different. She hated your kind with a deep, burning passion… my poor Watson. What she did to you was unforgivable._

* * *

Countess de Silva flung the bundle from under her arm. Watson leaned protectively over Holmes instinctively, but when the net fell over him, he realised that the detective had nothing to fear from the intricate netting. He staggered to his feet, pulling the trapping device away from Holmes but unable to free himself. Suddenly feeling drained of strength; he fell to the floor, as if forced down by an oppressively heavy weight.

The Countess laughed at his efforts, as Watson groaned, and tried to move. He felt like he was being crushed, and his whole body ached under the weight of the net. It was only when he forced his eyes open that he fully saw what it was that trapped him. The net was laced with silver wire.

"Silver," he moaned aloud, "How… why…?"

"I told you. I am a professional hunter," the Countess replied, "I know what you are, you stupid mongrel. I don't keep these two around for their scintillating conversation – they identified your scent immediately to me."

"What do you want with us?" Watson asked, hating how weak his voice sounded, even to himself. It was like being sat on by an elephant – the weight of the net felt incredible, as the silver seemed to leech away all of his energy, like rain down a storm drain.

Countess de Silva arched an exquisite eyebrow; "I decided that I would trap you before you could trap me. I had a feeling that your friend's logical mind would conclude that I simply had to be killed. I will therefore kill you before you can kill me. That net will deal with you quite entertainingly, before you feed my dogs… I would not sully my mouth with your filthy blood. No, Mr Holmes here will be quite enough to sustain me well into my journey overseas."

Suddenly, Isaac let out a low bark in response to a knock at the door. The Countess swore, vividly – Watson was surprised to hear such words from a woman, even if she was evil! She crossed to the door, and opened it only part-way, conversing with the barman beyond. Watson strained to overhear, even as he clawed ineffectively at the silver-wound ropes that held him in place.

"I shall be down momentarily," the Countess replied, "just allow me a moment to… to powder my nose."

She closed the door and turned a scowl on Watson; "Who followed you here? Who did you bring with you?"

Watson merely stared at her in confusion, when the Countess suddenly reached down and lifted him up, shaking him like an errant child; "You were followed here! Who by?"

"No… nobody… I don't know!"

The Countess hissed a curse, and opened the wardrobe door. She flung him inside, amongst the hanging dresses, and fixed him with a glare.

"Mark my words. If you make one sound, you will pay by watching my hounds tear your friend Holmes apart, limb from limb!"

* * *

Lestrade was uneasy about so many things, and with such vague thoughts troubling his mind, he suddenly found himself walking down Baker Street. He had some distant notion of confronting Holmes with his questions, but he hesitated – he had no idea what was bothering him, but his instincts were screaming at him that something simply wasn't right – Sir Isaiah Bryce's disappearance, Gregson's monstrous dead dog, Holmes's own odd behaviour… well, more odd than usual, at any rate.

He was still hesitating, trying to concoct some reasonable excuse for a visit, when he saw Mr Holmes and Dr Watson step out of their lodgings and flag down a cab. Without really knowing why, he quickly hailed another, and gave orders for the cabbie to follow the Holmes's carriage. A flash of his official badge convinced the driver to keep an even pace and do as he was told. Lestrade kept a keen eye on where they were going, still uncertain as to why he was following the pair, but trusting his policeman's instincts. When he saw them pull into the West India dockyards, he quickly had the cabbie take him down a side street, where he paid the man, tipped him heavily, and sent him on his way.

Sticking to the shadows, Lestrade followed them as they headed to a pub. No doubt this was one of Mr Holmes's private cases, but Lestrade's curiosity was piqued. Besides, he had come this far, he reasoned.

"Giles, I hope you know what you're doing, man," he muttered to himself, and then, straightening up, he strolled nonchalantly down the street and walked into the pub. He was suddenly glad he was not in uniform – he would have stuck out like a sore thumb. He crossed over to the bar, leaned on it, and pulled out his badge – he could see no sign of Holmes or Watson in the patronage.

The barman obediently crossed over and hunkered down; "What can I get for ya… oh."

This last comment was at the sight of the badge. Lestrade met his gaze evenly; "I don't want trouble – I just want to know about two men who arrived a few minutes before me – one tall and pale, dressed in grey; the other shorter with brown hair and a moustache, carrying a cane…"

"Oh, they went up to see the lady, so they did," the barman replied, helpfully, "second floor, room at the end…"

"I'd rather they didn't see me here," Lestrade told him, quickly, feeling a cold stab of fear at the thought of Holmes's reaction to him barging in on a private meeting with a client, "um… could you go up and tell them that Inspector Lestrade of the Yard is here to see them, as and when it is convenient?"

"Oh, sure, everybody's messenger boy, that's me," the barman snorted, but obeyed, shouting to a younger lad and a barmaid to watch the place for a few minutes. Lestrade, thinking that he might be in for a long wait, ordered a pint of ale. He had just taken his first appreciative sip when the barman reappeared; "The lady's on her way down to see you. No sign of your two men."

Lestrade frowned, but nodded and thanked the man. Ten minutes later, he was being pointed out by the barman to a woman dressed in mourning black with a veil covering her face.

"Inspector?" she said, demurely, holding out a silken-gloved hand in greeting, "I understand that you are here to see me?"

"Ma'am," Lestrade greeted her, taking her hand and giving her a polite bow, "I had hoped to converse with Mr Sherlock Holmes, if you are acquainted with him? I had no intention of disturbing a private meeting…"

She laughed, daintily, raising her hand to politely shield her mouth as she did so; "I am sorry, Inspector – I don't know anyone of that name. If you saw him come in here, maybe he was one of the two men who have just broken into my room… perhaps you would be good enough to come upstairs?"

Lestrade followed her, a sense of trepidation coiling a cold tendril around the nape of his neck. He wondered, nervously, exactly what the hell he was letting himself in for…

* * *

_It seems to me that my narrative is becoming somewhat introspective, but I seek to share such insights as I have made into what you have become, Watson. You are more than either man or lycanthrope, and yet you retained your most basic humanity. I profess my own amazement that you were able to carry on your professional practice as a doctor. Of course, there were a number of changes – many of your patients were no doubt surprised that you no longer relied on aconite as an anaesthetic, or that you refused to accept payment directly, asking them to pay Mrs Hudson at __Baker Street__ – especially when they tried to present you with silver coinage!_

_Silver. Such a precious metal to so many, yet what it can do to you… I do not like to think of it. I cannot begin to imagine the pain…_

* * *

Watson, bound in the lethal rope-and-silver net, lay curled up in the bottom of the wardrobe, feeling distinctly ill. His head was pounding and his breath rasped in his throat as he fought for every breath, resisting the urge to close his eyes and slip into beckoning unconsciousness.

He had heard the Countess roughly shove Holmes's still unconscious form under the bed, as around ten, maybe fifteen minutes later she had gone to meet their mysterious follower, having veiled her face to disguise herself. He heard the door to the rooms open, and voices reached his ears. He suppressed a groan. Lestrade! What was he doing here? He suppressed a cough; he did not want to risk Lestrade becoming embroiled in the matter, for fear of what the Countess might do to the poor Inspector.

"As you can see, Inspector," the Countess was saying, "There is no-one here now. But only a few minutes ago, two men broke in here. They seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see them! I suspect that they were looking for someone. They asked me to let them out through the window, and I obliged… They went in that direction, if it is of any assistance?"

"It is, indeed, ma'am," Lestrade responded, as Watson closed his eyes, willing the Inspector to leave, and get himself out of danger, "I hope their intrusion did not startle you too much?"

"Oh, no, Inspector – I have my dogs to protect me while I travel. These men are not criminals, are they?"

"Believe it or not, ma'am, they are on the side of the law," was Lestrade's weary reply, "I hope that you do not mind if I avail myself of your window?"

"By all means, Inspector," the Countess replied, amused.

Watson heard faint scuffling sounds, and then a long moment of silence. Very distinctly, he heard the scrape of a window being closed and a click as it was locked. There was a dragging noise – Holmes being pulled from under the bed, no doubt. Watson took a deep, shuddering breath; it was getting even harder to breathe, and he felt horribly cold. Without warning, the wardrobe door opened, and Watson tumbled out, sprawling on the floor, still tightly bound in the nets.

"Whether you planned that little distraction or not, the Inspector is not likely to return, Holmes," the Countess hissed.

Leaving the detective where he lay, she crossed to her back, and drew a wickedly-sharp silver knife from one of the compartments. Isaac and Ishtar cringed back, whimpering, as the Countess tested the blade with one gloved finger. She turned towards Watson, who no longer had the strength to keep his eyes open.

"Werewolf fur is very tough to cut through, unless you use the right tools," she purred, conversationally, to no-one in particular, "You are a fine specimen – I have time enough to skin you for your pelt – the rest of you I will leave for my dogs…"

Too ill and too exhausted to be able to protest as the Countess advanced, Watson managed a low groan, and the darkness took him.

* * *

The Countess leaned over the unconscious, man-form wolf, the knife held tightly in her hand, her lips parted slightly in excitement as she advanced on her fallen prey. However, a slight creak of a floorboard behind her, and a very significant, metallic click, made her hesitate.

"Drop the knife, Countess."

The Countess turned, letting out a low, angry growl, even as she released the knife, letting it fall the to floor with a heavy clatter. Holmes advanced up slowly, arm outstretched, gun levelled at her chest. Only the finest tremor of his hand belied the effect of her concussive blow to his face, as he very slowly approached her wit caution.

"Madam," he said, in a cool tone, "step away. This gun is loaded with silver bullets – you may not have a werewolf's aversion to it, but I am assured by my readings that such a bullet can still render you with a fatal wound. I suggest that you do not give me cause to test that theory."

* * *

Holmes felt himself wavering a little – his face burned with a hot pain that warned of a magnificent bruise appearing, and he still felt the lingering sluggishness of involuntary unconsciousness coupled with the persistent headache that was trademark of a concussion. Still, by taking a deep breath and steeling his incredible resolve, Holmes regained control of himself as he calmly threatened the Countess with a weapon he was not certain would have any effect on her.

The Countess spat a curse at him, but obediently stepped back. Holmes's eyes quickly flicked around the room – the Countess's two tame wolves hung back, whining and growling; clearly they wished to act, but they apparently understood the threat to themselves and the Countess. Holmes's gaze then came to rest on a familiar figure, lying prone on the floor.

"Watson!"

The Countess smiled serenely and merely sat down on the settee as her hounds crept closer to her, to lie at her feet. Holmes ignored this, keeping the gun in one hand as he tugged at the knots that held the heavy net around his friend. He did not fail to notice that the rope net was augmented with spun silver wire; expensive, and extremely dangerous to werewolves. He switched the gun to his left hand as he picked the knife up with his right, working to sever the cords and knots that bound his unconscious friend.

"Why? Why would you do this to him?" Holmes snapped, as he worked to free the knots, "What kind of evil is this?"

"No more evil than you came to dish out to me, once you learned what I am," the Countess coolly quirked an eyebrow, "do not deny it, Mr Holmes – you came to dispatch me, as I suspect you have killed others like me before. I simply struck first in self-defence. I am a hunter by nature, and his mangy type are my speciality. That net has killed no less than five of his kind – it will be good to add a sixth."

Holmes bit back a curse, as he fumbled, one-handed, to untie the bonds around the poor doctor. The Countess examined her fingernails with apparent disinterest in Holmes's actions.

"I must say," she remarked, conversationally, "It is rare for a mortal to keep such a pet."

Holmes managed to get a stubborn knot free, and fought to wrestle back the nets. The Countess laughed at his efforts.

"I would not bother, Mr Holmes," she told him, airily, "he's been in that net for more than twenty minutes at least. He is dead by now; all energy sapped from him until his heart stopped. Rather a slow death, though no less than his kind deserves."

"I bid you be quiet, madam," Holmes told her, through gritted teeth, "Your ancient grudges are of no interest to either myself or Watson!"

"One less of their kind plaguing the world," the Countess waved her hand dismissively, unconcerned, "Mr Holmes, I have yet to decide whether I wish to drink your blood, or convert you to my own ilk… it is a shame we fed so well last night, it will be a good few days before the blood hunger comes upon us again…"

"Then it was indeed you who killed the homeless man last night. I suspected a female vampire when I observed the footprints of a woman, and drag marks of a long dress in the dirt, along with the presence of at least two dogs. It did not take me very long to deduce who and what you are."

"Indeed. Despite his poor appearance, his blood was particularly rich. We fed well."

Holmes suppressed a shudder at the thought as he clawed loose the final knot and wrenched aside the netting. He pulled Watson free of the infernal silver web, bundled it up, and threw it into the corner of the room, to a yelp of protest from Ishtar and an amused laugh from the Countess. Holmes pressed two fingers to Watson's throat and held his breath…

* * *

_Poor Watson… I know that you would not garner such sympathy, but the effect of that net upon you was truly devastating. When I first pulled you free of the bonds, I sincerely thought you dead… Had that been the case, I would have killed the Countess there and then in cold blood. _

_Perhaps if I had, we might have spared the suffering that followed._

_

* * *

_

_**A/N: **Is it me, or are these chapters getting longer? I hope you enjoyed it..._


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N: **Apologies for the delay in updating - something else took over my mind for a while. I needed the break - this fic is starting to feel a bit epic, and was in danger of completely taking over my life! Sorry!_

* * *

"He's alive," Holmes gasped, and, scooping Watson into his arms, he staggered to his feet, lifted his friend easily, and placed him on the bed. Gently lying Watson's head down on the pillow, Holmes loosened his collar and tie, checking his temperature and breathing, all the while keeping a close eye on the Countess, working one-handed, the other hand keeping the special gun trained on her at all times. Watson was freezing, his lips tinged blue with cold; his breathing shallow, pulse weak. Holmes was already tucking a blanket around him even as the Countess stood, and folded her arms, frowning.

"He cannot be alive," she scowled, "the longest a wolf ever survived in my nets was ten minutes, and he has been tied up for twice as long as that…"

"Watson is no ordinary werewolf," Holmes replied, realising the incongruity of the statement even as he worried silently at the doctor's unresponsive state, "as you would have realised had you given him a chance!"

"I do not give wolf-kind chances!" snapped the Countess, "I kill them before they can kill me!"

Holmes crossed around to the other side of the bed, so that he could sit on it without disturbing Watson, despite his apparently comatose state. Holmes leaned back against the headboard, crossed his legs in front of him on the bed, and fixed the Countess with his most piercing glare, keeping the gun pointed levelly at her chest.

"Madam," he said, in an icy, dangerous tone, "I know what you are, and what your husband was before you killed him in cold blood. I have my suspicions as to your two loyal guardians, who seem neither one kind nor the other. I can deduce the long-standing animosity between your two species; that much is glaringly obvious. What I do not know is the reason for this apparently senseless conflict."

"I am surprised your own pet dog hasn't told you."

"Watson is nobody's mere pet, and I would thank you not to speak of him as such! His conversion is very recent; if there is a reason for your feud then it is unknown to both of us."

"Then he is indeed unique – I had thought that the hatred we share was instinctive by now."

"You avoid the question, madam!" Holmes snapped, "I would ask you, for once, to give me an honest answer. What have you to lose?"

"What have I to gain?" she rejoined, "you may think that you have the upper hand here, Mr Holmes, but one does not reach my age without having a few tricks up one's sleeve…"

"I would advise against trying any of those supposed tricks, madam, while I still possess this gun."

The Countess threw back her head and laughed, revealing her unnaturally sharp fangs, before she grinned at him, dangerously.

"You do amuse me, Mr Holmes; perhaps enough for me to enslave you to my side for all eternity," she told him, her voice holding an edge of malice, "very well… I will tell you what you wish to know, if only because it will amuse me to see your reaction…"

* * *

_I remember all too well, sitting in the Countesses' room upon that old bed, with you lying beside me, old fellow. I could not believe the effect that the silver had upon you, but more remarkable to the Countess was that you were still alive. You are different from other wolves, Watson… and I am thankful for that fact. _

_The Countess was old, older than I had imagined… she was experienced, and clever; that much was clear. A vampire does not live as long as she without being intelligent, as so many were burned at the stake or hunted down by Slayers in darker times, before vampires and wolves passed into the realms of folklore and mythology. I believe that a theologian once said that Satan's greatest trick was to convince the world that he did not exist… it is a vampire's greatest defence that the world no longer believes in them._

_At first, I thought that I had gone mad, Watson. I gave up cocaine shortly after your Change, thinking that your warnings had come true and that I had finally damaged my mind beyond repair. I scarcely dared to believe what was happening, fearing incarceration in Bedlam, to be pointed out and jeered at by the two-penny public… but it was all true._

_I have since observed the varying powers that vampires possess – I have seen those that can fly, or change their shape, or place thoughts in a man's mind as if they were his own. But until we met the Countess, I had no idea of what they are truly capable of._

* * *

Holmes leaned over Watson, trying to get a response from the unconscious man, even as the Countess spoke.

"I am Spanish by decent," she told him, "I was turned to darkness in the year of our lord 1638, when I was barely one score years and four. I married the man who brought about my conversion and we travelled here, to this country; we spent many years together. We lived and fed well until he was killed by a Slayer… the word means nothing to you?"

"I can deduce the meaning from your inference."

"I thought that you might. It is a dead profession now, I am glad to say, since our kind are now widely believed to be a mere myth. I, however, survived. I met another noble of mixed English and Spanish decent, and, hiding my nature from him, I married him. That was the Count Jeremiah Joseph de Silva… he was not a mangy werewolf then. I came to know that he was bitten by a wolf but six months after our wedding, in some clandestine agreement he had with an elderly uncle of his to take over the territory when the old man became too infirm to defend it. He did not reveal his nature to me at all!"

The Countess broke off her narrative to slowly pace the room, watched by her loyal dogs. Holmes remained sitting calmly on the bed, absorbing the information she poured out, his hand resting on Watson's shoulder. The doctor's skin was still a deathly pale-grey, but he was breathing evenly, and Holmes kept the majority of his attention on the woman before him.

"So; my fine young husband was turned cur, before I could make him into a noble blood-lord," the Countess spat, folding her arms and glaring across at Holmes, as if the perceived slight was his fault. "Little did I realise it at the time, though he no doubt realised my true nature the moment he first scented me after his change – their sense of smell is one of their few advantages over my kind. So, unwittingly, I allowed myself to lie with him as a dutiful wife should; it was only when one of those unions had an unexpected side-effect that I knew something was amiss… under normal circumstances, a dead womb such as my own should not bear fruit. I realised nothing until my skirts grew tighter and my blood-hunger drove me to feed on the cattle of neighbouring farmers on an almost daily basis. I was so very nearly discovered…"

"Isaac and Ishtar," Holmes commented, and the two hounds looked across at him in response to their names.

"My dogs," the Countess confirmed, an edge of disdain in her voice, "born mongrels of vampire and wolf, with all of our weaknesses and none of our strengths. Their human form is too deformed for words; their wolf-form little more than skinny mongrels. Still, these two at least are fairly strong, and loyal to their mother, aren't you, curs?"

"Yes, mother," the two half-wolves whined in unison, dipping their heads momentarily.

"I knew that something was amiss with my husband's nature as soon as I realised I was pregnant. I fled my home in my seventh month, and hid in the Scottish highlands. I found a farmer's cottage, feeding first on him and his family, and then on his cattle. After I gave birth, I then hunted for my… offspring… to feed their blood-hunger until they were old enough to do it for themselves… of course, as soon as I gave birth to… to _puppies!_ I discovered the feral nature of my betrothed. I was violated by a filthy mongrel! I would have tied them in a bag and dropped them in a river, as one should with a mongrel whelp, but I decided that they might be useful to me in my hunt. I swore an oath at that moment to kill him and any other member of his race for what he had become and what he had done to me. During my hunts he has begged me to reconsider, claiming our species could live in harmony, that humans were our real enemy, but he was wrong. Their kind are fit only as pets, aren't you, you flea-bitten whelps?"

"We are loyal and obedient mongrels, mother," Isaac confirmed, and Ishtar whined in agreement.

"Good boy, Isaac."

On the bed, Watson stirred and groaned. Holmes gently gripped his shoulder, silently willing him to stay down and stay quiet; he doubted that the Countess de Silva would allow his friend to leave the room alive without some convincing.

"Vampires and werewolves are at war," Holmes said, aloud, hoping to continue gleaning information from his suddenly talkative hostess, "why?"

The Countess responded with a lazy shrug; "That, Mr Holmes, is not the business of a mere mortal. Unless you would like to be turned to our ways… you would make a most noble blood lord."

"Madam, I have no desire to drink the blood of my fellow man," Holmes replied, disgusted, "though I admit to some curiosity as to what you intend to do now? I cannot prove that you have murdered your husband as you killed him while he was in wolf form. Even I would have an extraordinarily difficult time in proving to Scotland Yard that you were a vampire married to a werewolf, whom you subsequently murdered while he was in wolf-form. I would certainly find myself on the way to Bedlam before I could finish my tale."

"But I cannot let you live," the Countess pointed out, "especially not your cherished pet. He may have somehow survived my silver leeching-net; I doubt he would fare so well against a silver bullet. Were I to let you go, no doubt you would hunt me down and slay me as you first intended."

She folded her arms, as if daring him to disagree with her. Leaning forwards on the bed, the detective pointed a thin finger at her.

"I have only ever killed in self-defence," Holmes declared, firmly, "loathe as I am to allow a criminal to walk free, it would not be the first time that I have done so, whether by choice or circumstance. And I can assure you that Watson has no interest in your ancient war, no matter the politics behind it. You are quite safe from us, Madam, provided that you leave London and give me your word that you will not return."

In response to a very slight movement from his companion, Holmes glanced down at Watson, who was watching him through half-closed eyes. Holmes was pleased to note that there was some colour returning to his face, though he was still terribly cold and pale.

"I find it hard to believe that you would allow me to leave so easily after you came here intending to kill me, Mr Holmes," Countess de Silva fixed him with a stern glare, "and your dog can stop pretending to be asleep. Bid him to _sit_!"

She laughed, a shrill, unpleasant sound, as Watson slowly levered himself into a sitting position, slumped back against the bedstead. He fixed the Countess with a dark glare, but said nothing, and instead growled low in the back of his throat. On the floor, one of the wolves… dogs… hounds… Holmes did not know what to call the poor half-bred creatures… growled as if in reply. The Countess frowned.

"What does he say, Isaac?" she snapped, "Does he conspire with his human master?"

Isaac whined, wordlessly, ears flat against his skull like a scolded puppy. By the door, Ishtar gave a dismayed yelp as the Countess got to her feet, anger crossing her countenance. Holmes felt Watson tense beside him, as the Countess drew a riding-crop from the umbrella stand by the door. Both Isaac and Ishtar visibly cringed, whining.

"Do not deceive your mother!"

The Countess raised the riding crop above her head, and Isaac cowered, terrified. Holmes could see that, like the netting, the riding crop was laced with silver decoration. Watson growled again, shifting slightly on the bed; the sound was odd to Holmes's ears, incongruous with Watson's usual easy-going temperament.

Holmes was on the verge of questioning the doctor's strange behaviour, when a sudden, powerful shove sent him off the edge of the bed. With a yelp of protest, Holmes found himself sprawled face-down on the dusty, wooden floorboards.

"Watson!"

* * *

Holmes groaned as he levered himself up from the floor, his head still pounding and the bruise on his cheek throbbing in tandem. He quickly recovered himself and scrambled to his knees just in time to see his friend in mid-leap, transformed to wolf, teeth bared, even as his torn clothing fell away in tatters. With claws outstretched, Watson tackled the Countess and slammed her to the floor, standing over her, effectively pinning her arms to the floor as he stood over her, teeth bared in a snarl. Holmes slowly got to his feet, fastidiously brushing dust from his black suit.

"I am certainly glad to see that you are feeling better, old chap," Holmes commented, retrieving the revolver from where he had dropped it, "but I do wish you had found a less dramatic way of demonstrating it. And you accuse me of having a penchant for theatrics! Now, madam…" Holmes crouched down next to the Countess, who hissed at him in wordless fury, "What are we to do now…?"

Holmes held the gun pointed down at her, standing over the captive vampire, as the Countess's eyes narrowed; "You wouldn't dare…!"

"Madam," Holmes purred, "believe me when I say I would. I have been educating myself on a lot of folklore since Watson's transformation. I would use this gun on you without hesitation, just as I would use it upon an enemy werewolf."

"He would," Watson confirmed, with a growl, "I have seen him do it."

Holmes adjusted his grip on the revolver, even as the Countess struggled ineffectively against Watson.

"Isaac! Ishtar! Tear them apart!"

The two half-breeds whined and cowered; tails between their legs, too terrified to act. Watson growled low in his throat; Isaac barked at him and then whined. Holmes had a feeling that a conversation was taking place; one that he was not privy to. The Countess hissed her fury, but quieted immediately when Holmes knelt down and pressed the gun meaningfully to her throat.

"It seems, Countess, that our roles are reversed," Holmes told her, meaningfully, "We find ourselves at the same impasse you reached with your husband… either capable of killing the other, depending on who intends to make the next move…"

"Then we must bargain," the Countess concluded, after a moment's pause, "let me go, Holmes, and I will leave London and I will not come back… in your lifetime, at least. This much I am willing to swear to."

"I would bind you not to take a further human life," Holmes told her, "I know you can survive on cattle animals…"

"And Isaac and Ishtar stay here," Watson said, bluntly, "You have no need of them now that your husband is dead."

The Countess laughed; "Do you really think I would give up my most nourishing food and my loyal body guards? Fool! Mangy dog! I will whip the flesh from your hide with a lathe of silver!"

Holmes heard a low growl, and at first thought it was Watson. Then, he turned, and realised that it was one of the half-breeds; Isaac. Holmes could easily identify him by a distinctive patch of white fur on his nose. Ishtar, of a generally much whiter pelt all over, hesitated, and then joined in with a toothy snarl.

"We are not dogs," Isaac growled, "not mutts or mongrels or curs or hounds or slaves… not flea-bitten, not useless, not weak… we are wolves!"

The Countess snarled a curse at them all, and Holmes found himself vaguely amused by the transformation from elegant lady to spitting, hissing alley-cat. The Countess did not have to change her shape to make an even more marked transformation than Watson was capable of.

Isaac and Ishtar hung back, pressed together, whining and growling quietly as Watson continued to pin down the Countess.

"Your answer, Madam," Holmes demanded, "Will you agree to our terms?"

"Holmes," the Countess said, firmly, "I will _destroy_ you for this."

Watson yelped in amazement when he found himself pinning down nothing but black smoke. The Countess's laughter hung in the room as the black cloud dissipated around the stunned Watson, gathered in the air above him, and evaporated up the chimney.

Holmes dashed to the window and flung it open, leaning out, just in time to see the black wisp of smoke reform and solidify back into the human form of the Countess, resplendent in her mourning black. Standing beneath him on the ground below, she glanced up, waved to him, and disappeared down an alley-way.

Holmes swore, and thumped the windowsill. There was no way that he could catch her now.

* * *

_It is not a trick that I have seen any other vampire perform, but it was effective. I believe that each vampire develops a very specific set of skills, where wolves generally have the same characteristics. As a vampire grows older, their power increases – we have heard mutterings of vampires who have lived since the time of Christ, but I have seen no evidence to support this… I hope I never shall – the very idea fills me with a cold fear, Watson… I hope that you will not think me a coward for my fear… but such a vampire could well destroy the world. _

* * *

Ducking back into the Countess's room, Holmes found Isaac and Ishtar cowering in the corner, even as Watson got to his feet, shaking himself off.

"Sorry, Holmes," he groaned, "I haven't quite pulled myself together yet. That silver net nearly did for me. How did she do that?"

"Do not dwell on it, old boy," Holmes replied, with forced nonchalance, "So. There is another vampire loose in London. The question falls to me; do I have to hunt and kill her? I must say I find the idea slightly abhorrent; I am a detective, not a…a vampire slayer."

"If we don't stop her, she might carry out her threat to kill you," Watson pointed out.

Holmes made a non-committal noise, as he crossed to the settee and sat down. Watson sat on his haunches, watching him silently.

"I find this situation most… frustrating, Watson," Holmes admitted, at length, "I have revelled in the pursuit of knowledge, but knowledge of the supernatural? Preposterous, yet here I find myself…"

"You are talking to a werewolf, Holmes," Watson pointed out, with a growl of a laugh, unable to keep amusement out of his tone, "but the Countess… what are we to do about her?"

"Mother," Isaac whined, softly, mournfully.

Ishtar gave a low growl and a yip, whining. Holmes glanced across at the two large dogs; each was only about half of Watson's size. Still; they were big, for dogs... They sat together, side by side, heads bowed. Watson also looked across at them, and growled something. Ishtar nodded; an almost comical gesture for a dog to make.

"Sorry," Isaac murmured, in an old, yelping speech, with the hesitancy of someone not used to speaking, "mother rarely let us talk people-speak. People-speak is for intelligent people, not stupid animals…"

"Isaac, isn't it?" Watson said, kindly.

"Yes. This is my sister, Ishtar."

Isaac moved his head and gently licked his sister's nose. Isaac had a single patch of white fur on his nose, but overall his coat was mostly dark brown dappled with grey. Ishtar was a much lighter colour, a chestnut brown with grey and white fur. They were both extremely thin, with patchy fur and large, terrified brown eyes.

"The Countess is really your mother? You are half-vampire?"

"Mother says we are too much dog and not enough vampire," Ishtar hung her head, "we cannot fly, or change our shape – we can do people-shape but mother said it was too much moon-wolf-shape. We cannot do what our sister…"

Isaac gave a sharp, terrified bark, and Ishtar flinched – both of them backed up against the wall, heads flicking quickly around the room as if looking for some unseen terror. Watson, despite his canine appearance, managed a very human-looking frown; "Your sister? There is another half-breed?"

"Not allowed to talk about it," Isaac shook his head, fearfully, "Not allowed…"

"Not allowed," echoed Ishtar, as terrified as her brother, "Dangerous to talk about her. Not allowed."

"You can tell us," Holmes said, encouragingly.

Isaac whined, pawed the ground, and shook his head. Watson sighed, and tried another tack.

"I see. Very well… tell me; what happens to you at full moon?"

Ishtar cocked her head to one side, questioningly. Isaac glanced at her, and then at Watson; "Nothing happens."

"You do not change, or get… different?"

"No. We get… hungry… but nothing happens. We eat, we feel better."

Watson made a thoughtful humming noise, and then glanced across at Holmes. The detective folded his arms, looking down at the two cowed half-wolves.

"Your mother… Where will she go?" Holmes demanded.

"Don't know," Isaac replied, holding up one paw in a submissive gesture, "mother has abandoned us! Mother will hunt us and kill us like the dogs we are!"

The two of them dissolved into a low, wordless whine, which Watson silenced with a sharp bark. They looked up at him in canine surprise; ears alert, heads on one side. Holmes, had he been reading one of Watson's florid stories, would have expected a simile involving a pair of bookends to describe their appearance…

"That's better," the doctor-wolf said, at last, "you're wolves? Fine. You want to live here? Fine. But you work for Holmes and I now, not your mother. You can live in this city, and roam wherever you may, but there will be rules. You will not hunt, kill, or hurt any human being – there are plenty of rats and strays for you to feed on. You will not be seen by humans in daylight. You will not bite any human to turn them wolf, nor any dog or other creature. You will only speak human tongue to Holmes or myself. You will follow any instruction from Holmes as if it had come from me. You will come to us when we call – Holmes will summon you with three blasts on this whistle… Holmes?"

To demonstrate, Holmes took his high-pitched dog whistle from his pocket, and blew down it. The sound it made was barely audible to him, but all three of the wolves flinched. Watson shook his head, and turned back to the twins. "In return, we will feed, shelter and protect you if and when you need it. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir!" both of them barked.

"Good! Now go – out through that window. Track your mother's scent, find out where she is hiding, and call for me as soon as you find her. Go!"

* * *

_And so I come to Isaac and Ishtar, the Countesses' poor, abused children. I have taken any number of orphans, street urchins and cast-offs into my collection of Irregulars, but these two hounds are in a class of their own… _

_The effects of the silver net had not quite worn off for you. Exposure to silver leaves you so weakened, my dear Watson. I remember my first experiments with smelting silver to cast a bullet – several hours later you returned and fell into a dead faint at the fumes in the room! It is like a fast-acting poison to you, whether it breaks your skin or not. I do not know why you should be do affected by it, but then again I do not understand how a man can become a beast just because the moon is full!_

_Oh, my dear fellow – I wish that I were able to explain more to you about your condition, and to help you… but all I can do is record my recollections and observations…_

_I hope that, one day, you will find true peace.._

* * *

On Watson's barked command, both half-wolves leapt cleanly through the window, scrambled down the fire escape, and were gone. Holmes raised an eyebrow as Watson sat down again, turning his attention back to the detective.

"I will assume that you believe that they can be trusted," Holmes said, dryly.

"They've been waiting to follow another wolf all of their lives," Watson replied, glancing over his furry shoulder at the open window, "I think their mother deliberately kept them apart from their father to avoid them forming a pack."

"And now there is a pack of wolves in London," Holmes realised, "albeit a small one of only four, if you count Hemmingway…"

"A pack of wolves which works for you, Holmes," Watson reminded him, with a long yawn and a very canine stretch, which left deep claw-marks in the floorboards, "Damn, Holmes – that's the third suit I've ruined in as many weeks. I'm going to have to start carrying around a change of clothes!"

"Well, we can't stay here all day," Holmes remarked, getting to his feet, "we should probably follow the Countess, if we can. How are you feeling, old chap?"

"Fine, Holmes, just fine…"

"Excellent. I appreciate that you will have to keep that shape for now; do try to look like a domesticated pet, will you? We are bound to be observed, I should like to be able to pass you off as a normal hound."

"Oh, thank you very much," Watson snorted, jumping out through the window, as Holmes followed, "I do so enjoy being taken for walkies."

Holmes reached the bottom of the fire escape, just as Watson bounded gracefully past him, and then paused, glancing over his shoulder.

"Come on, Holmes, do keep up," Watson called, mischievously, "Or should I just shout 'heel' every time you fall behind?"

Holmes could not resist. He drew himself up to his full height, assumed a stern expression, and pointed imperiously to a spot just behind his own foot.

"Physician," he commanded, "Heel thyself!"

* * *

_It took you a long time to accept what you are, Watson – many people would assume that the benefits you gained were worth the very few disadvantages. But how could they… how could I… ever hope to understand what you were going through? I know that changing forms caused you unspeakable pain, and that you could no longer touch silver made so many small things impossible to do. I recall one evening dining at a restaurant, and you were completely unable to eat because the cutlery was silver!_

_But by this stage, you were forming your pack – Hemmingway, despite his protestations, was afraid of you and would not dare cross you. Isaac and Ishtar adored you for freeing them from their mother's tyranny – between them, these three wolves were ultimately loyal to you. This does not surprise me – you are a trustworthy fellow, Watson, and an experienced commander._

_What surprised me was that you chose not to be the leader of the pack._

_You gave that role to me._


	9. Chapter 9

_With four wolves at my side, there was little that transpired in the city that I did not know about from that point on, but those were early days. I did not trust in the twins – Isaac and Ishtar – so greatly as you, but then you have always had insight and empathy into your fellow man, I do not doubt that this increased tenfold when it came to other wolves. _

_But what of the rest of our pack? It was Lestrade, poor Lestrade, who suffered the most, I think. His mind has never been all that strong, and what he saw that night must have pushed him almost to breaking point…_

* * *

Inspector Lestrade did not get very far. He had searched all of the streets and back alleys around the old pub, but had found no sign of Mr Holmes or Dr Watson. He was also thoroughly lost, and it was getting dark. He paused, for a long moment, to get his bearings – if he could just find his way to the West India Dock rail station, from there he might be able to find a cab to take him home to his wife and away from the mad, pointless search for Sherlock Holmes.

Irritably, shivering a little, he dug his hands into his trouser pockets and retraced his steps. If he could find the pub, he could find a pint, and then find someone to give him directions to the station… now that seemed a more acceptable proposal.

Lestrade had therefore just turned to go back the way he had come from, when a dark-clad figure ran straight into him.

"What the f-?" he exclaimed, the last word muffled as he fell, knocked flat on his back by a perfumed figure, who swore in a very unladylike manner as she landed on top of him. "Uh… madam?" Lestrade muttered, trying to help her up but not awfully certain where to put his hands and acutely aware of her breath, extremely cold, on his bare neck… he managed to get hold of her shoulders, and pushed her up off his chest so that he could try to get a look at her face in the dim light.

The woman – it was the woman from the guest house! She scrambled back to her feet, bared her teeth, hissed at him wordlessly, and ran off into the darkness. Lestrade gaped after her, his mind reeling with surprise, and the first coherent thought that crossed his consciousness was: _My, what incredibly sharp teeth you have…_

He staggered to his feet, staring after the fleeing woman, wondering whether he should pursue her – she had appeared in some distress, but the image of those… those… _fangs_… lingered unpleasantly in his immediate memory. He turned, hearing another sound rapidly approaching, and dread rose in his throat when he saw what was running towards him. He flung up a defensive arm, shielding his face for all the good it would do, as he was bowled over by the woman's two large hounds.

Lestrade hugged the dirty floor as the two beasts bounded over him, heading in the direction of the running woman. He stared after them, wondering what the hell was going on. He certainly wasn't going to chase after those monsters – after all, they were probably only following their mistress… Lestrade, pushing himself into a sitting position, leaned against a wall, taking a few deep, shuddering breaths, trying to gather his wits. It was then that he heard voices.

After reassuring himself that he wasn't going slowly crazy, as Gregson had been taunting him for the last couple of days, Lestrade looked up. In the darkness, he could see very little, but there was a shadowy shape approaching him.

"Are you sure it was this way, Watson?"

"Quite sure, Holmes – the trail is quite distinctive…"

"Then what the… I say! Who the devil are you, sir?"

"Mr Holmes?" Lestrade squinted into the darkness, cursing the lack of lamp-light down this stretch of street, "Dr Watson?"

Suddenly, a massive, canine face with sharp teeth and deep brown eyes materialised from the shadows in front of him, illuminated by the light cast from a window of the building Lestrade was currently slumped against. Lestrade gasped, his eyes widening in terror, as he shrank bag.

"Nice… nice doggy…" he murmured, weakly, "uh, Mr Holmes? Is this your dog? Please, Mr Holmes…! Dr Watson? Nice Doggy! Oh, dear God…"

The dog suddenly disappeared back into the shadows as Lestrade called the two names. Lestrade thought he heard a muttered curse from the doctor, even as Holmes stepped forwards, leaning over him; "Lestrade! What the deuce are you doing here?"

"There was a woman," Lestrade replied, distantly, "she had the most amazing teeth… and, and there were two dogs… bloody big dogs… but not as bloody big as your bloody big dog…"

"I think he's in shock, Holmes," murmured Dr Watson's voice, an odd, low growl, sounding for all the world as if he were crouching down somewhere behind Holmes.

Lestrade glanced down, and saw that evil-looking hound at Holmes's side again, and he groaned; "Holmes, I've got to tell you – I'm bloody sick of bloody big dogs!"

"He's not my dog," Holmes muttered. Lestrade peered at him blearily. Goodness, but that was one hell of a bruise on the detective's face…

The hound stepped back behind Holmes and was hidden by shadows. From somewhere behind that, Dr. Watson spoke up, his voice still sounding slightly strange… a little bit hoarse, perhaps… "Holmes, it looks like the Inspector is in shock – we should take him somewhere warm and safe."

"But Watson – the Countess…"

"Will have to wait," Watson replied, enigmatically, "we will wait for a report from our… agents… who are acting on the matter."

Holmes sighed, and took Lestrade's arm, looping it over his own thin shoulders, lifting and supporting much of the Inspector's weight. Lestrade was glad of this – between the cold and the shock of what he thought he had seen his legs seemed to be refusing to support him.

"Are you alright, doctor?" he said, weakly, "You sound a little, uh, hoarse…"

"Just a cold, Lestrade," the voice from behind assured him, "and don't worry – the dog is back here with me. He won't hurt you."

Holmes led them through several dark alleys, until they reached the station. Here, he hesitated, despite seeing a waiting hansom cab, illuminated in the gas lights of the station.

"Watson, ah, your, um, your…"

"Ah! Yes, my patient – thank you, Holmes, I had almost forgotten," Watson interrupted, "I will, um… go to him immediately… if you will take the, ah, the dog home with you?"

"Of course, my dear fellow… I will see you back at Baker Street when you are finished."

"Thank you, Holmes. Oh, and Lestrade? There really is no need to call him a 'nice doggy', alright, old chap?"

Lestrade found himself being bundled into the carriage, as Holmes got in next to him, holding the door open. The huge dog he had seen accompanying Holmes earlier leapt aboard, gave him a placid look, and lay down on the other seat. The horse whinnied in obvious fright on sight of the beast, and Lestrade closed his eyes in dismay.

It was a very fast, very bumpy ride back to Baker Street.

* * *

Lestrade was sitting on the settee, wrapped in a blanket and nursing a cup of hot, sweet tea, both supplied by Mrs Hudson, as Holmes stood, leaning on the fireplace, smoking his pipe. The dog was nowhere to be seen – when Lestrade had timidly asked about it, Holmes had simply announced that it had "gone home of his own accord", whatever that meant.

"What were you doing out there, Lestrade?" Holmes demanded, at length, startling the Inspector out of his trance, "It was miles from the Yard and it is not even your duty shift. I should very much like to know why you saw fit to follow myself and Dr Watson out there…"

Lestrade was saved from replying by the arrival of Dr Watson – funny, he had not heard the front door go. He half rose, in greeting, but the doctor waved him back down, as he crossed to his armchair by the fire, and collapsed into it with an exhausted sigh. Lestrade noticed how pale and shaky the doctor looked – no doubt symptomatic of the cold he had previously alluded to.

"How was your patient, doctor?" Lestrade asked, politely, in an effort to defer the interrogation he knew he was about to be subjected to.

"My…? Oh, yes. Fine, thank you, Lestrade," Watson offered him a wan smile, "And how are you feeling now, old chap? You looked like you'd seen a ghost in that alleyway."

"I don't believe in ghosts," Lestrade replied, too quickly, defensively, "or…or… werewolves, or vampires, or any of that rubbish!"

"Calm yourself, Inspector," Holmes told him, in a low voice, "clearly, something assaulted you – no doubt one of the large dogs Watson and I were tracking. You are lucky we came along when we did."

"There was a woman…" Lestrade shook his head, "You should have seen her teeth!"

Watson traded a worried glance with Holmes, who gave him a minute shake of his head. Lestrade ignored them, and finished his tea. In the warmth of the sitting room, with the fire blazing brilliantly, it was hard to recall the terror he had inexplicably felt in the darkened alley… he took a deep breath.

"Gentlemen," he said, in as steady a voice as he could manage, "I apologise for my following you earlier today, but I had suspected that your lives were in danger. I was attempting to warn you. It appears that I was incorrect, and I am sorry for my imposition. Thank you and Mrs Hudson for your hospitality, but I really should get home to my wife…"

Lestrade quickly snatched up his hat and coat, muttering and receiving in return polite, if slightly surprised, farewells. He stumbled down the stairs, bade Mrs Hudson a goodnight, and went to find the welcome sanctuary of home, his wife's embrace, and maybe that bottle of Scotch he had been saving…

* * *

Holmes took a deep inhalation of smoke from his pipe, savoured it, and blew it out again, deep in thought. He removed the pipe from his mouth, tapped the bowl on the mantel, and then rubbed his brow with his thumb.

"Lestrade suspects something," he commented, at last, "he is observant, but he does not deduce well from his observations, thankfully."

"Or maybe he does not credit the deductions he has made," Watson corrected him.

Holmes glanced at him sharply, wondering how accurate that statement might be. Watson still looked horribly pale, and even as the doctor reached to retrieve the blanket the Inspector had dropped, Holmes observed the pained stiffness of his actions. Holmes snatched up the blanket, tossing it to him easily. Watson caught it gratefully, wrapping it around his shoulders with a shiver. Holmes watched him for a long moment.

"Oh, do stop staring at me, Holmes," Watson told him, irritably, "I am not some specimen under your microscope!"

Holmes suppressed a quirk of amusement as the doctor leaned closer to the fire, shivering. Sitting down in his own chair, Holmes continued to smoke. With shaking hands, Watson lit a cigarette of his own, smoking it pensively.

"Yes," Holmes said, at last, turning away, "I am curious as to how you survived the silver net as well, old chap, though I am, of course, grateful that you did."

Watson did not reply directly, but stared into the fire. "I am nothing like the other wolves we have met, Holmes. I feel no compunction to hunt and kill… well, except for at full moon, but we can control that. I have no territorial instinct. I wish no harm on other wolves… I admit, vampires do give me some difficulties, though I find this a fairly unremarkable human reaction. What am I, Holmes? What the hell is it that I've become?"

"I do not know, Watson," Holmes answered, softly, hearing the quiet frustration in his friend's voice, "but I am sure that we will, eventually, find out."

There was another long moment of silence. Watson got up and poured each of them a drink, knocking his back in one and immediately pouring another. Holmes raised an eyebrow, and Watson levelled a warning finger at him.

"Say nothing, Holmes. I am frozen to the bone by that deuced net; I feel as if I shall never be warm again!"

Holmes remained diplomatically silent, sipping carefully at his own drink, savouring the scorching feeling as it burned the back of his throat and sent a fiery glow throughout his limbs.

"And what of the Countess?" Holmes asked, as last, leaning back in his chair to stare at the ceiling, "What are we to do about that pretty little problem, hmm?"

He glanced across at Watson, but the other man did not appear to have heard him. Holmes needed only a moment of scrutiny to see how drawn his friend now appeared; gaunt and pale, with dark shadows underneath his eyes. Changing from human to wolf was, apparently, somewhat painful but otherwise effortless – changing back, however, seemed exhausting, and Watson had done it several times in the past couple of days.

"Watson," Holmes said, softly, and then, when he got no response; "Watson!"

The doctor started slightly, and fixed Holmes with a baleful glare. The detective softened his words with a slight smile; "Do go to bed, my dear fellow – you are exhausted, and rightly so."

"You need to sleep as well, Holmes," Watson shot back, a spark of defiance in his eyes despite his haggard appearance, "And how are we meant to sleep, in any case? We have a supernatural opponent who wants to turn you into a vampire, turn me into a hearth-rug, and can turn herself into a cloud of smoke!"

Watson leaned his elbow on the arm of his chair, resting his jaw in the palm of his hand as he scowled into the fire. Holmes tapped the clay stem of his pipe against his teeth.

"You can relax, Watson – the Countess will not come here tonight," Holmes told him, assuredly, "I made many observations tonight, but the most glaring one is this. She waited until the last possible moment to dissipate and escape – she was waiting for any alternative to present itself. I would wager that the effort cost her dearly, and, like yourself after an episode of transformation, she will be exhausted. She will also be more than occupied in keeping out of reach of her own poor offspring – in a weakened state, she will be no match for them. We are quite safe."

Watson gave him a dubious look, but said nothing. However, despite Holmes's reassurances, neither of them made any move towards their beds that night.

* * *

_I recall how we stayed up all that night – if one of us fell into a doze, it seemed that the other would make the greater effort to stay awake. During my own conscious moments, I knew that we could not keep this up; my ability to go without sleep is remarkable, but, alas, not infinite. I have never experienced such fear of a foe since the Countess._

_Until I realised the nature of the hitherto unnamed player in the game we found ourselves embroiled in._

* * *

Inspector Lestrade went to work at Scotland Yard as usual the next morning. He returned the greetings of his men half-heartedly, avoided going anywhere near the Superintendent, and closed the door to his office. He sat down at his desk, and stared in vague trepidation at the paperwork strewn haphazardly all over its surface. There, on the top of the pile, was a memo from the Chief Inspector saying that he was being pressed for results on the Sir Bryce case, which meant Lestrade had better get his finger out and send him a report, and this time, to make it one that did not cast libellous assertions against a powerful and popular political figure.

Lestrade filed it appropriately in the bin. If the Chief wanted a decent outcome on the report, he could investigate the bloody man himself – Lestrade was satisfied with Holmes's explanation and would not provoke the detective's ire by attempting to prove otherwise. He was not a politician, or a diplomat, and at the moment he didn't care very much for being an Inspector. They could all go hang...

Suitably steeled by the foul mood he had successfully worked himself into, Lestrade bellowed for a constable and demanded that the man bring him all of the information pertaining to the massive dog found dead in the alley that awful day. The constable had, either bravely or stupidly, pointed out that this was Inspector Gregson's case, and wouldn't Inspector Lestrade prefer to work on his own matters and get the Chief Inspector off all of their backs?

No, Inspector Lestrade had replied, in less than polite tones, he would not, and if the constable knew what was good for him he would go and get the bloody file or spend the rest of his career patrolling the bloody sewers. The constable, unsurprisingly, obeyed, and Lestrade soon had the files, and an offering of a cup of tea – with biscuits – to appease his wrath.

Drinking the tea and mumbling curses, Lestrade opened the file. There was, as he had hoped, a photograph of the dead beast, although the file recorded that the body had been cremated. There were no witness statements, save for a brief report in Gregson's sloppy handwriting. Really, how had the man passed his exams with a scrawl like that?

Lestrade reviewed the report. Essentially, Gregson's report – rather smugly, Lestrade thought – concluded that the beast had, indeed, been responsible for the violent death of a homeless beggar down by the docks, and had been shot by a citizen seeking to defend themselves. Gregson also postulated that it was the same giant dog that had been seen in the vicinity of another recent murder, but the perpetrator of that killing was still at large. Gregson had concluded this death the result of a drunken brawl and had already written the case off as unsolvable given the "transient nature of the deceased". It was a line Lestrade had written once or twice himself; essentially, as a homeless beggar, there was no one to miss the poor decedent and as such it was simply not worth investigating the matter further. It was one of many things he hated about his job.

He picked up the photograph, and stared at it for a long time. He put it down, and tried to work on something else. He ended up picking up the photograph again.

"A few months ago, I'd never seen a dog this size before," he said, aloud, irritation and wonder creeping into his tone, "and now, everywhere I look, there are bloody… huge… dogs…"

He lowered the picture, and stared at the fireplace. There was no fire burning in the grate, yet the room seemed oddly smoky. Lestrade sighed, feeling suddenly extremely cold.

"I swear to God; that woman had fangs…" he murmured to himself, shivering.

The smoke curled lazily down the chimney. Lestrade blinked – surely smoke should go up the chimney…? The room was suddenly thick with it… Lestrade leapt to his feet – was the chimney on fire? How, with no fire in the grate…?

The impossible happened – the smoke curled suddenly into a very solid fist, which connected hard with Lestrade's jaw and sent him crashing to the floor.

* * *

Mrs Hudson sighed with age-old irritation at finding the sitting room floor covered in books, papers, maps and assorted paraphernalia. Knowing better than to try to tidy the mess, she simply picked her way through it, and flung open the heavy curtains that covered the windows, allowing bright sunshine to come streaming into the room. A muffled groan from the armchair made her fold her arms, pursing her lips in disapproval.

"Gentlemen," she said, firmly, "it may have escaped your attention, but I wash your bedding and keep your beds made for the purposes of sleeping in, not simply to make the rooms look presentable… which would make a change. Look at this mess!"

Holmes growled something wordlessly, and then leaning over the arm of his chair he flapped a hand at her in irritation; "Coffee, woman, for God's sake, coffee!"

Mrs Hudson snorted at her lodger's terrible manners, as she opened another set of curtains. Holmes gave a theatrical moan and buried his face in his hands; Dr Watson shielded his eyes, yawning widely. Eventually deciding to take pity on them, Mrs Hudson swept out of the room and went to prepare her largest coffee pot.

As she left, Watson yawned and stretched, cramped from spending an uncomfortable night in the chair.

"Well, we're still alive, at least," he grumbled, scrubbing sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Such as it is," Holmes replied, stretching with feline grace, until his back clicked and he gave a sigh of relief, "How do you feel this morning?"

"Greatly recovered… you, Holmes? That is a remarkable bruise the Countess gave you…"

"If it is the worst that she will wreck upon my person, I shall be glad of it. No, Watson, do not trouble yourself – it is a mere trifle. Now… let us to coffee, and then on with our hunt!"

"Our hunt? Holmes… I am not sure about this… she may be a vampire, but I draw the line at hunting the wretched woman down and killing her!"

"I said nothing of killing the woman, Watson," Holmes replied, "she knows that she has lost, and I think that she will leave quietly. However, there is something I need to know before she leaves…"

"Her daughter," Watson finished, quietly, "Yes, I had thought about that… Isaac and Ishtar seemed terrified of her…"

"Those poor creatures are terrified of everyone," Holmes sighed, "I need to know the nature of this third child. I need to know what she is, and whether she is a threat."

"She travelled with the Count – perhaps her allegiance is against her mother?" Watson suggested, "Or perhaps she had already left the city?"

"I am not so sure that is the case."

"Well, if you are sure, it should not be difficult to locate the Countess."

"My dear Watson. If you are thinking of going out in broad daylight in the form of a…"

Holmes broke off quickly at a knock at the door as Mrs Hudson swept in quickly.

"Inspector Gregson to see you, Mr Holmes," she said, placing a tray of coffee and toast on the dining table, "he is most insistent that it is urgent."

"If it's another of his big dog stories, tell him to go away – I'm busy," Holmes growled, already heading for the coffee pot. It was a beautiful china one – Watson had purchased it as a gift for Mrs Hudson after her previous silver one had mysteriously disappeared one day…

"It isn't," the burly Inspector stepped into the room uninvited, his face flushed, his speech rushed; "Holmes, we need you down at the yard – it's Lestrade. He's disappeared!"

"The poor fool probably over-slept," Holmes replied, pouring coffee for himself and pointedly not offering a cup to the agitated Inspector, "he had a rather trying time last night with a pair of large stray dogs."

"Is someone breeding the bloody brutes?" Gregson exclaimed, "No, sorry – that's irrelevant. He was seen at the yard this morning – I mean he's vanished from his office, into thin air. Several people saw him go in, a constable took him some tea and a file. There was a noise, like an explosion, and a handful of people rushed in. Lestrade was gone, and nobody saw him leave."

"I hardly think it would be difficult to avoid being observed by a few policemen," Holmes said, dismissively, "even you and Lestrade could manage that…"

Gregson bristled; "Just listen to me, Holmes! Enough of your damned jibes – Giles is missing. We heard sounds of a scuffle in the office, within seconds there were three constables and a sergeant in the room, and the place was empty. There's one door, no windows, and I doubt he went up the bloody chimney, so get off your high horse and help us find the poor sod!"

"Easy, Inspector," Watson said, soothingly, getting to his feet, interrupting before Holmes had the chance to argue, "was anything taken from the office?"

"We don't know," Gregson looked deflated, an edge of worry creeping into his tone, "it looked like a demon had ripped through the place – it's going to take days to sort through everything…"

"Sounds like Lestrade's usual filing system," Holmes responded, dryly.

"Oh, you're a one to talk," Watson snorted, "Inspector – you had better call a cab to take us to the yard."

"The Station Wagon is outside," Gregson responded, jerking his head towards the window.

Holmes sighed, and downed his coffee.

"Very well – lead the way, Inspector."

* * *

_Isaac and Ishtar had alluded to a sister who terrified them, apparently even more so than their mother. The fact that they were not allowed to talk of her was significant, and I knew, with all the certainty of a well-made deduction, that this was the female companion who had travelled with the Count on the first day that we had met him._

_I thought deeply as to her nature; half-bred of lycanthrope and vampire. The Countess had indicated that Ishtar and Isaac could not take on human form, and as you had seen a very human figure in the carriage, I assumed the Countess's other daughter, the third of her triplets, to be more vampire than lycanthrope. I took it that she, like her siblings, had all of the weaknesses and none of the strengths, a bastard child of two genetically incompatible species._

_One should never make assumptions, Watson._

_I am so sorry…_


	10. Chapter 10

The Yard was in uproar – it seemed every available man had been drafted in to aid the search, and Holmes was distinctly unimpressed at the destruction of any available shred of evidence, and promptly threw everyone out of the office. Only himself, Watson and Gregson remained, the latter under sufferance on Holmes's part. Holmes quickly combed the office as Gregson and Watson stood and watched.

Watson, however, was making deductions of his own. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, and paused. Too many people had been through the room that morning, and there were an incredible number of smells indented on the place – dust, old papers, smoke and ash, sweat, the distinctive odours of many different people… Lestrade had definitely been here, So had she…

Opening his eyes, Watson met Holmes's gaze quickly, and gave an imperceptible nod, and slid his eyes over to look significantly at the fireplace. This non-verbal communication went completely unobserved by Gregson, who fidgeted impatiently as Holmes nonchalantly made his way over to the fireplace, and peered up it.

"How wide is this chimney?" Holmes asked, squinting into the darkness above.

"Not sure," Gregson shrugged, "Oh, come on Holmes – you can be serious. It's impossible to drag a man up a chimney! He wouldn't have climbed it willingly!"

"No, Inspector – it is impossible for a man to disappear into thin air, or walk out of a building in seconds without being seen by the dozen witnesses on the way, all of whom would mark his passing. As I usually say; when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, is usually the truth. I suspect that this is an abduction that has been meticulously planned. I would surmise that this chimney feeds from a number of other fires, including the adjoining room and the upper floors, and as a result would be quite wide. You may find, if you examine the roof, that the chimney stacks have been removed and a part of the chimney demolished to make way for a man to squeeze through – not one of your stature, but a wiry figure like Lestrade, perhaps…"

"I doubt it, but I'll send a couple of lads for ladders and get them to have a look," Gregson replied, with a scowl, "I refuse to believe it, Holmes! How could you get a man up a chimney? I doubt he went willingly!"

"A very strong man could manage it with a rope," Holmes replied, still peering up the chimney, "or even with a pulley system at the top of the chimney."

"It's too far-fetched," Gregson shook his head, obstinately, "it couldn't be done."

"It has been planned and prepared in advance," Holmes announced, stepping back from the fire-place with a dramatic flourish, "See, Inspector – a scrap of grey cloth from Lestrade's suit, snagged on a brick as he was dragged up the chimney. Lestrade would have been taken completely unaware. His abductor would have been waiting for him to arrive, rendered him unconscious, and the rope was around him and he was in the chimney before your constables could break down the locked door. The resulting noise from the men in the room would have hidden any noise from the chimney. I am sure Lestrade is alive – no assailant would have gone to so much trouble otherwise, when they could simply have killed him and left – but I suspect the Inspector will be somewhat bruised and soot-covered when we find him."

Watson raised an eyebrow, as Gregson continued to shake his head. Holmes's eyes glittered as he leaned forwards.

"To the roof, gentlemen!"

* * *

Gregson was only too happy to keep his feet firmly on the ground, as Holmes and Watson scaled the long ladders up to the roof, and engaged in an ungainly scramble up the tiles to the top of the chimney. Holmes's suspicions had already been confirmed by the sight of bricks and a chimney spout lying on the cobbles of the yard below, but even so, the damage to the chimney was incredible – it looked like the top had been blown apart, and there was rubble and bricks scattered all over the roof.

"How did nobody hear this?" Watson marvelled.

"It never ceases to amaze that a man, on hearing his neighbour cry for help, will assume that others have heard and will assist," Holmes murmured, "incidences of violent rape and murder go unobserved because the mind of man is often to allow another to intercede. No doubt it was overheard, but nobody thought to report it."

Watson shook his head sadly. Holmes picked up a brick, and examined it thoughtfully.

"It is apparent that this was an explosion without fire," he commented, "observe, Watson – the brick is soot-stained, as one would expect from a chimney, but the stain is uniform – there is none of the streaking one would expect to see from a localised blast of gunpowder. Many of the bricks are also intact – the chimney exploded outwards, as if there were a great pressure pushing from the inside."

"The Countess, in her rather interesting guise…?"

"I believe so. I shall inform Gregson that there is evidence that a rope and pulley was used, so that my rather less insane theory shall be believed. However, it seems to me that poor Lestrade has been carried up and away by little more than a cloud of smoke."

"Why him?"

"I believe that he encountered the Countess, and saw something that led her to suspect that he realised her true nature. She was not to know that the poor man knows nothing of the reality of vampires – by his association with us, she assumes his knowledge to be greater than it is."

Watson sighed; "Poor Lestrade – he should never have been mixed up in this in the first place."

"We should not concern ourselves with pointless regret, Watson, it is not constructive. Is there a trail that you can follow? I suspect that the Countess cannot travel far in such an insubstantial form as smoke… she would have rested here, with her captive subdued, knowing that she was unlikely to be observed on the rooftop immediately… it is possible that she had a vehicle waiting nearby; in daylight it would be impossible to go even across the rooftops carrying an unconscious man. Observe, Watson, the chimney sweeps at work…"

"Indeed," Watson nodded, as a young boy on a neighbouring roof gave the two gentlemen a curious look, before disappearing down the chimney stack, "I cannot change here, Holmes, but I can track her easily enough as I am…"

"We must be cautious, Watson – perhaps she seeks to draw us out."

Slithering quickly down the roof and back to ground level, Holmes recounted an amended version of his findings to Gregson, who dubiously agreed that it 'might be possible' for a 'skinny bugger like Lestrade' to fit through the gap widened as it had been by a very clever application of a chisel to what was clearly some very old, crumbling mortar around the bricks.

As Holmes spoke, slowly convincing the dubious Inspector, Watson paced the yard. There was the slight smell of perfume, the scent of Lestrade where he had been brushed against a wall, and that cold, indescribable smell of a corpse that couldn't properly die and yet wasn't fully alive. He nodded to Holmes, who met his gaze over Gregson's shoulder.

"I shall attempt to track the abductor, Inspector!" Holmes declared, "you should remain here, and conduct your own enquiries…"

"No way," Gregson folded his arms obstinately, "I'm coming with you. I'm not staying here to chase myself around in circles. So far, you've come up with our only lead, so get tracking, Holmes. My mind is made up."

Holmes scowled; he did not want the Inspector tagging along, and getting in the way at the best of times – it was worse to know that he was going to be using a werewolf to track a vampire, and having Gregson around was a risk to himself, Lestrade, and especially to Watson's supernatural secret. However, he saw Watson give a slow wink, and wondered if the other man had a plan to get rid of the Inspector.

"Very well," Holmes conceded, "this way, I believe…"

* * *

Holmes walked slightly ahead, observing everything, even as Watson muttered directions to him in a low voice, Gregson walking a few paces behind. Holmes was usually able to deduce for himself the direction; a footprint here, a brush of soot against a wall there, the drag of a skirt through the dust of a cobbled street rarely trodden at night… however, he would quickly have lost the train if not for Watson's unerring sense of smell.

Suddenly, Watson halted by the mouth of an alley, his eyes wide; "Good God, Holmes, did you see that?"

"See wh-?" Holmes began to say, but Watson's elbow in his ribs made him pause, "Yes, Watson – movement, in that alley!"

"A dog, a huge beast, I would swear to it!" Watson exclaimed, pointing earnestly, "did you not see it, Holmes? It passed right by the other end of that alley!"

"You jest," Gregson scoffed, but there was a note of uncertainty in his voice.

"I saw but a movement from the corner of my eye," Holmes added, quickly, with just the right note of concern and doubt, "are you certain, Watson?"

"I was looking right at it, Holmes – a great hound, as big as that of the Baskervilles!"

"Someone is breeding the bastard mutts," Gregson groaned, "Good Lord, I suppose I'd better go after it…"

He looked pale at the thought, and Watson patted his arm reassuringly; "Inspector, you could not go after that monster yourself – go back to the yard and fetch some of the constables. I am sure I saw it heading in the other direction. If you hurry, you might catch it! Don't worry about Lestrade – Holmes and I will take care of him."

Torn, Gregson hesitated, and then nodded quickly. Without a word, he turned, and ran back the way they had come. Holmes and Watson exchanged a look of satisfaction.

"Excellent work, Watson!"

"Thank you, Holmes. Now, quickly – this way!"

* * *

Holmes followed in Watson's footsteps, their paces perfectly matched, as Watson led the way through the twisting side-streets and back alleys. Holmes noted how the Countess had avoided all of the main roads, choosing a long, circuitous route. They paused at the mouth of an alley, where Watson reported that a carriage had waited for some time. Holmes had already observed for himself the deep ruts left by the wheels in the mud at the road-side, but the trail quickly disappeared down the street despite his keen observational skills – the morning traffic had eroded any evidence that he eyes could see.

However, it could not fool Watson's nose; "The horses were terrified, Holmes – the air still stinks of it. It was obviously a four-wheeled hansom led by two shire horses – and it went this way."

Watson made as if to run, but Holmes held him back; "Steady, Watson – we may be observed, and there are pedestrians here. Slow your pace to a brisk stroll, we do not wish to draw attention to ourselves."

Watson hesitated, but nodded. They set off at a quick walk, drawing no more than passing glances and polite nods from their fellow pedestrians.

"We are lucky the scent lingers," Watson murmured, as they walked, "the trail is no more than an hour or two old, and there are few horses around, none so terrified as this poor pair."

"Having a vampire at your back is as liable to do that to a beast of burden, as we have discovered with your own unfortunate effect on the poor animals," Holmes observed, "I have read that it is often remarked that animals have a greater depth of perception that we humans, but I have never credited it until now."

"Oh, you have no idea, my dear Holmes," Watson chuckled, dryly, "even as a human I can detect emotions on a person that are completely belied by any facial expression."

"We shall have to test your statement empirically, Watson, for it is my own observation that every emotion or state of mind can be told from the subtlest hints in the way a person moves, speaks, stands, or even in the most casual of gestures – I have long intended to write a monograph upon the subject…"

Their conversation trailed off as they moved into an industrial area of the city, characterised by red-brick factories and large storage warehouses. Watson slowed his pace, slightly confused by the myriad of smells, but it was Holmes who observed horse droppings at the mouth of a narrow gap between two outhouses.

"One would not normally expect to see a horse-drawn carriage in this area," Holmes murmured, "this way, I think…"

They slipped down the alley, Watson very deliberately leading the way, effectively placing himself in line for any attack. Despite the precaution, none came, and they emerged at the back of the buildings between two high-walled yards. Ahead of them was a red-painted gate, peeling and rotten, obviously well used. Watson pushed it open, and sniffed the air. They were at a back-alley cross-roads, strewn with litter, reeking of an open sewer. Watson flinched visibly at the overpowering smell.

"Good grief," he muttered, covering his nose quickly, "Vampires clearly have no sense of smell… urgh! We must be close to a main sewer…"

"I think she is deliberately trying to prevent you from following her, my dear fellow," Holmes remarked, "However, she places all to much faith in your abilities and none in mine – observe, Watson, the drag marks in the dirt left by a long skirt, and the deep tread of a woman's footprint, much deeper than her weight would imply, as if she were weighed down by a heavy burden one of her stature should not physically be able to carry…"

"That of an unconscious man, perhaps," Watson nodded, realisation dawning, "which way, Holmes?"

"There," Holmes pointed to a brick-arched alley, "She must not have gone far – these are busy factories, and a woman carrying a man over her shoulder as easily as she would carry a baby would draw far too much attention… we should proceed with caution."

The alley led to an open space, surrounded by disused stables. An old cart was slowly rotting in one corner, a victim of the progression of steam engines and trains for the haulage of heavy goods. Holmes crept forwards slowly, listening carefully, as Watson turned his back, effectively covering Holmes, so that they could observe in all directions at once. Holmes reached for the special revolver in his pocket, as Watson gripped his wooden cane, for all the good it would do.

A low laugh split the air, and a clear voice rang out with contempt; "How small your minds are, that you can only think in two dimensions!"

Holmes jerked his head up, as the Countess leapt down from the rooftop and landed heavily on the cobble-stones. She remained crouching down and bared her fangs at him with a hiss, raising her right hand, her fingernails resembling claws as she glared at them malevolently.

"Do not move!" Holmes commanded, keeping the revolver pointed at her, as Watson stepped to the side and turned to face the threat, "Where is Inspector Lestrade?"

"He saw me in my true form. His life is forfeit to me. He will tell me what he knows of the vampires and wolves in this city, and then he will die."

"He knows nothing. He saw nothing. He thinks nothing of you," Holmes replied, coldly, "release him, for his ignorant of these matters."

"I will hear that from his lips – if I believe it, he will die quickly. If I do not, he dies slowly."

Holmes sighed inwardly – there was no reasoning with the woman! He had rehearsed this moment mentally a thousand times since he had first deduced the Countess's vampirism, but that did not prevent a moment of hesitation before he pulled the trigger.

* * *

Watson jumped slightly at the sudden gunshot, reflexes screaming to react. He almost dropped to the floor, but Holmes's shout of surprise distracted him in time to see that the Countess had moved – with an incredible blur of speed she slapped the gun from Holmes's hand, sending it skittering across the cobbles, out of reach.

With another blur, she was behind Holmes, one arm across his chest, the other around his waist, effectively pinning his arms to his side. Holmes found himself completely unable to move – the vampire's strength was incredible! Her breath was extremely cold on the back of his neck, as he felt her lips brush against the skin just above his collar.

"You are mine, Holmes," she breathed.

Holmes felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as her tongue gently licked the nape of his neck. Just as he felt her fangs brush his throat, there was a shout of anger, and the Countess's grip was torn free. Holmes fell to his knees, gasping for breath, wiping quickly at his throat – bringing his hand away, he was comforted to see that there was no blood, and he heaved a deep sigh of relief.

On the ground, Watson and the Countess wrestled, neither seeming able to gain the upper hand. Then, the Countess rendered Watson a powerful punch that sent him sprawling, and Holmes saw why; on each hand, the Countess wore a number of silver rings. Holmes reached to pick up the gun from the floor, but with another lightning-fast movement, the Countess had seized his wrist in a vice-like grip.

"Fool!" she snapped, "I will have you for that…"

She grabbed Holmes by the throat, lifting him clean off the pavement. Holmes choked, clawing at her hand as she held him easily with one outstretched arm. Watson lunged at her again, but a blow from her free hand sent him sprawling to the floor once more. He swore as he landed heavily, near to where his wooden cane had landed – he had dropped it immediately the first time he had launched himself at the Countess. His eyes fell upon it, and inspiration hit him almost as hard as the vampires' punch.

Snatching up the stick, he rolled and leapt to his feet. Grasping it firmly, he brought it down with a loud crack over his raised knee. The sturdy wood was no match for a werewolf's strength and resilience – the cane splintered and broke in half. Watson raised the more pointed part in his right hand, and flung it with all his considerable strength. Like a javelin, the wooden spike sailed through the air, piercing the Countess between her shoulder blades.

To Watson's mind, three things happened at once.

The Countess screamed and fell, rapidly dissolving into dust, clawing wildly at the air as she collapsed in on herself, disintegrating, and disappearing completely.

Holmes dropped heavily, landing in an ungainly sprawl, gasping for air, rubbing his throat, gazing at Watson in obvious relief and gratitude.

And, from the rooftop nearby, a tall, pale woman dressed all in white screamed a single word…

"Mother!"


End file.
